


Photographs and Memories

by Lywinis



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fuck you Vaughn they're mine now, M/M, pairings are already tagged because they will become relevant, the fix-it fic everyone needed and that I deserved dammit, warnings to be added as they come up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-01-04 08:35:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 86,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12165312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis/pseuds/Lywinis
Summary: Photographs and memories,
All the love you gave to me,
Somehow it just can't be true,
It's all I've left of you.





	1. Someday (Pre-TSS/TGC)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bearfeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearfeathers/gifts).



> A collection of fics exploring before, during and the aftermath of the events of Kingsman: The Golden Circle as well as Kingsman: The Secret Service. Heavily Merlahad and Percilot, with permanent residency to the State of Denial. Spoilers abound for Kingsman: The Golden Circle. Can be considered the spiritual successor to I Lost My Heart to a Man with a Smoking Gun. (The latter is now complete considering there are some headcanons I have to change with the new information we've gotten via TGC.) No guarantees on timelines, but the fics should make sense and I will attempt to organize them by chronological order. Fics will be noted where they fit in the timeline with parentheses. Fics will also be shuffled into chapters where they fit the timeline, so a chapter's number might not be finalized until I consider the work complete. I am endeavoring to keep these snippets where they belong chronologically.
> 
> For example:  
> Chapter One: Memories (Post TGC)
> 
> This fic can be considered a partner to Bearfeathers's extraordinary [As Heavy as a History Book Can Be](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12198105/). While we diverge on minor details, we are writing within the same universe, with agreed upon major details. Please be sure to read their fic as well as leaving them all the comments, because I certainly can't do it without them.
> 
> If there is a fic that is not a part of the universe that Bearfeathers and I have been crafting, I will set it aside from its brethren with an (*) beside the title. I'll attempt to set fics within the timeline where able, but when not, check for the asterisk.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 
>       
>     
>     
>     _Just close your eyes and I'll take you there
>     This place is warm and without a care
>     We'll take a swim in the deep blue sea
>     I go to leave and you reach for me
>     
>     Some say better things will come our way
>     No matter what they try to say you were always there for me
>     Some way, when the sun begins to shine
>     I hear a song from another time and fade away
>     And fade away_
>     --Sugar Ray, "Someday"
>     
>     
>     

**[Galahad’s Townhome, Chelsea, 1994]**

The scent of cooking sausage roused Merlin from slumber, his stomach growling and reminding him that he’d not eaten much at Central the week before. While handling missions, sometimes he focused too intently on the Knight he was guiding, and it often took Morgana or Nimue bringing him takeaway or something else that had been prepared to get him to eat at all.

Now, however, he’d just gotten through walking Percival through an arduous mission in Kolkata; two weeks of long nights and even longer days as Percival navigated the black market in search of a cadre of arms dealers. The Knight had flown in last night, battered but ultimately successful, and Morgana had prescribed them both rest. Harry happened to be in town, and Merlin, despite himself, had agreed when Harry suggested they come back to his.

Last night was a hazy blur, half-remembered sensation, quiet needy breaths in the dark as Harry just…touched him. Rain pattering against the window last night had given away to spring sunshine, but sitting up in bed as the sun moved its way across Harry’s duvet made Merlin still feel as though he were just another man. Here, he wasn’t Merlin, not in the sense that he was at Kingsman. As the organization’s quartermaster, he held no small share of power, at least over recruits and the technicians and other tradesmen Kingsman employed to keep it running, but here—

Here he was just himself.

He was a mortal man, flesh and bone and blood, sitting in his…in Harry’s bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes and feeling his stomach growl as the scent of sausage was joined with the scent of coffee. The clock on the bedside table read almost half past ten, far later than Merlin usually liked to rise, but he’d needed the sleep. The recovery period was just as important as the endurance of living on a diet of caffeine and sarcasm whilst looking after his charges. He’d learned that much as Kingsman quartermaster for a little over a decade.

Merlin shifted, sliding out from beneath the sheets and placing bare feet on the plush pile of the cream-colored carpet.

Like all Kingsman residences, Harry’s was the penultimate of luxury, designed to promote a certain aesthetic. While it certainly did that, there were still things that made the place Harry’s. Framed butterflies and various other insects littered the bathroom downstairs, but up here there were softer things.

The room itself was large, taking up half the space of the upstairs, including the master bathroom. Kingsman designers had set the townhome’s décor, though a Knight might make changes to suit him if he wished. Decorated in greens and golds, with heavy, dark wooden furniture, it painted the picture of a man who liked his solitude. For a time, Merlin was sure that had been true, but knowing Harry as he did, it felt more like the papier-mâché of a mask that had been carefully crafted to make someone comfortable with who they thought of as Galahad.

Instead, reds and dark blues favored the Knight in question, though it was rare Harry was tempted to stand out in such colors. Gold made his eyes melt like ganache. Merlin was fondest of his plaid on Harry, though he’d never admitted that he’d worked the design into more of his suits than was perhaps proper.

Pride of place above the headboard was a seascape; painted with a meticulous hand, Merlin had no doubt this had been a commission from the man in question. It depicted the beaches of Barcelona, taken from one of the high sea walls. Merlin recognized the high walls that protected most of the city – they were covered in bits of sea glass that formed colorful murals of their own. Boats bobbed in the aquamarine water that the artist had daubed enough sunlight on to suggest it was painted at midday. Merlin’s own experience with the city had mostly been after hours – and god help him, he’d rather not take a boat for a good long while.

Harry’s scent was strong here, his cologne leaving a spicy, masculine reminder of the man who lived here when he wasn’t chasing danger like it owed him money. His coat from the night before lay haphazardly across the back of the armchair in the corner. Likely he hadn’t been back upstairs to pick up after himself; normally he was tidier, but Merlin suspected that he was content to save it for later this morning. His closet door stood open, the walk-in closet larger than Merlin’s own quarters at Central. Merlin could see a pair of shoes had been selected and were missing from their brethren.

Merlin’s own clothing lay across the chair as well, neatly folded; his shoes sat beneath the chair. Harry seemed to have taken the time to fold Merlin’s before tending to his own bedtime ablutions. The thought made Merlin’s lips curl slightly at the corners.

He rose, feeling his body stretch of its own accord as he lifted onto tiptoe and rolled his shoulders. He stretched his back, feeling it flex as he dropped back onto his heels and let his hands slide down his sides for a moment. He was feeling good, but then, a full night’s sleep was a good thing that he rarely got when Knights were at their most active.

A night in Harry’s bed had worked free most of the knots from sleeping at his desk in Central, but a hot shower would rid him of the more persistent ones. Merlin padded barefoot into the posh master bath, not bothering to take the clothing Harry had divested from him the night before. Instead, he stepped into the large walk in shower, turning the knobs until steam clouded the glass cubicle. Dark marble closed in the space, making it intimate than the white impersonality of tile. It was space enough for two, the decadence wasted on a single man, though Harry as Galahad must always appear a man of means. It was another of the hypocritical auras that Kingsman exuded.

Stepping into the shower, he let the hot water sluice away the last of sleep from his brain and he scrubbed himself clean.

Harry’s soap was a mixture of dark wine and cinnamon, warm amber and cloves, with the hint of leather, and Merlin almost didn’t want to use any, so as not to give Galahad the benefit of knowing that Merlin had been marked. Not that he minded, but it was the principle of the thing. He would never live it down and Harry would preen the entire day, knowing he could smell himself on Merlin’s skin.

Still, Merlin found himself humming as he turned off the water and wrapped one of Harry’s huge, cotton towels around his waist, knotting it at the hip. He had his own shaving kit here, a spare he’d tucked here almost six months ago, for the rare visits he made where he spent the night. Being under scrutiny from Arthur meant that they didn’t get this time like they should have, had they worked in a normal office.

But then, who’s to say they would have met at all, then? Merlin didn’t dwell on the idea, shaving himself clean and letting his glasses defog before he put them on. His HUD blinked to life, but he darkened it, turning it off.

Now wasn’t the time for that. This time was just for him, and for Harry.

He found his clothing clean and pressed, not just folded. How long Harry had been awake and bustling about, Merlin couldn’t say, but it was strange for the lackadaisical Galahad to get the jump on his day. His perpetual tardiness was something of a joke amongst the other Knights, and some treated it more kindly than others. It was a source of irritation for Arthur and his cronies, more of an affectation to Merlin and the rest of the Knights who looked upon Harry with fondness.

As he dressed, he found himself humming again. He was well-rested and reset, ready for the day. A day of doing absolutely nothing, upon order of Morgana. Two weeks of nearly killing themselves to lock down an arms smuggling ring meant they’d earned themselves a few days. Whilst Percival was likely sulking about that, Merlin would take the proclamation with a smile this time.

Perhaps the setting had something to do with it.

There were days that Merlin swore that Harry was making up for those lost years after Rhodes, his quiet presence heavy and weighted along Merlin’s senses like the finest of blankets. Far from chafing beneath it, it was often something he retreated to when things became unbearable—sitting by and forced to watch when Arthur doled out a particularly grueling mission, a particularly favorite pastime these days, for example.

Soft music reached his ears, and he cocked his head as he strolled down the hallway, listening. Elgar, if he wasn’t mistaken. Salut d’Amour. It made his lips lift again, another piece of Harry unwittingly shared with him to squirrel away for later.

Merlin made his way downstairs, finding the smell of breakfast leading him down to the kitchen. He found Harry, his back to him as he fussed with the coffee maker at the counter, his hair untamed and soft still, though he must have showered, as some of the towels in the bathroom had been damp before Merlin had found a dry one. The radio played softly, set in the window, though Merlin was more captivated by Harry himself.

For a long moment, Merlin just took in the sight. Harry was dressed for home, though he’d forgone his cardigan for just a plain dress shirt. He wore an apron, as he often did while he cooked, and the long line of his torso was broken with the straps. Sunlight poured in gently through the kitchen window, bathing him in gold and turning his hair to fine copper, highlighting the red that so many people missed when Harry combed his hair into that neat part.

It was as if time stood still, for just that moment, letting Merlin take in all of what Harry was and would be. There was an intense, bittersweet ache in his chest, gnawing at him from behind his ribs. It was partly hunger – not the hunger that had driven him from bed to seek the kitchen – but something deeper, something far less likely to be sated.

He had spent nearly eleven years attempting to keep Harry away, to keep him on the straight and narrow, to make sure that his career in Kingsman wouldn’t be compromised, care and keeping bleeding in through the cracks like the gold in a piece of shattered pottery. Seven years apart, driven away by their own jagged hurts and stubbornness, and yet…

They found each other again, always at that precipice of ‘we might have been’ instead of ‘we are’. So many regrets burned into his memory that he could hardly stand it. Instead of listening to them, however, he strove to overwrite them, to dip this memory in amber and let it freeze deep within the heart of him, to preserve it for himself.

Just this once, he was selfish, greedy with the desire to keep this for himself.

Merlin stepped up behind Harry, running a hand down his back before he moved in closer, wrapping his arms about the Knight’s waist. The tension that Merlin had created with his hand dissipated as Harry ratcheted back his instinct and relaxed into Merlin’s embrace instead. Giving Harry a moment to react was always wise, as he had, on many occasions, thrown grown men through the wall on reflex. Here, in his own home, he was a little more relaxed, but it was best to warn him before attempting something so intimate without Harry knowing he was behind him first.

Merlin stepped closer until Harry’s back was pressed against Merlin’s chest, his chin resting on Harry’s shoulder.

“Good morning,” Harry said, in that effortless purr that always indicated he was pleased with where Merlin was at that very moment. “Sleep well?”

“Mm,” Merlin said, tucking his chin against Harry, not saying much else as he just held the man he’d come to love over a decade. He glanced into the clean glass of the kitchen window, catching the faint reflection of them. Harry wore a pleased, though puzzled smile.

That was enough to make the ache into a dull roar, the hunger in his chest feeling like it would never be satiated. He could spend a lifetime with Harry Hart, and never sate it. He’d been hungry for this, this sense of belonging, this quiet. He could only snatch at bits and pieces, brief moments of calm with the man in his arms—

He swore to himself that it was better than nothing at all. He’d lived that, after Rhodes. That had been hell. This?

Maybe his eternal reward for saving the world would be this for eternity, if Harry would have him for that long.

“Is everything all right?” Harry asked, after a moment. Merlin nodding against his shoulder made him relax further, as though awaiting some kind of terrible verdict brought down by a grumpy Merlin. Instead, Merlin slid his hand up, covering Harry’s heart with the palm of his hand.

“Thank you,” Merlin said softly.

Harry reached up, placing his hand over Merlin’s. “Whatever for, Dove?”

There was no real way to articulate the thoughts running through his head. Instead, he just kissed Harry’s jaw, offering him a smile.

“For breakfast, of course.”

“Brunch,” Harry said, smiling back. “You had a bit of a lie-in.”

“I was hoping to have a bit more of one after we eat,” Merlin admitted.

“As you wish,” Harry said.

Merlin couldn’t think of a better answer than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based loosely on [this piece](https://twitter.com/a_nua_nua_nu/status/832555465124876288?lang=bn) I stumbled across on Twitter, something soft and nice. It's also a spiritual successor to Bearfether's [Home is Wherever I'm With You - 'Touch'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3830767/chapters/9249928). Think of it as a sort of morning-after.
> 
> Harry's a bit of a nester after Rhodes. Making up with Merlin took him so long, having him in his space means that he's going to go a bit over the top just to be the comfort Merlin needs. I honestly found it interesting to write Harry through Merlin's eyes, and explore his space a bit.
> 
> Thanks for reading, if you liked it please feel free to mash that comment button. Doesn't have to be anything more than a simple 'I love this, thanks for sharing', but they mean a lot. If it makes you anxious, don't feel like you have to do it, just know that I appreciate every comment I get. Kudos are nice as well, but you can only smash that like button once. You can also reblog the links I post on tumblr. Who knows, I might find another Constant Reader with your reblog.
> 
> A side note as well: Salut d'Amour was chosen because it was written as an engagement present for Elgar's fiancee, but also because this is the [funniest fucking take](https://www.classicfm.com/discover-music/latest/romantic-classical-music/) on it I have ever read:
>
>> If you have a moustache or are in any way British or emotionally repressed, all you have to do is stick this piece on the stereo, stand awkwardly in the corner and wait for the object of your desire to shower you with kisses. Guaranteed*. (*Not even slightly guaranteed.)


	2. The Labors of Heracles (Pre-TSS/TGC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The lion, mightiest dread of Nemea, crushed by the arms of Hercules roared his last._  
>  \-- Seneca

[Savile Row, London – 1995]

Thomas Brampton was a familiar sight at Savile Row. No one batted an eye when he greeted the tailors in the front and then strode past them and up the stairs to the back. He made his way past the well-appointed conference room, up another short flight of stairs, and was greeted with a receptionist’s desk. Guinevere, the receptionist, was waiting for him; she gave him a smile and indicated that he should proceed through the door behind her.

He did so, knowing where the door itself led.

Banded oak was melded with a solid steel core six inches thick, the pneumatic hinges allowing it to swing open and shut with ease and with nary a whisper as he closed the door behind himself. The room beyond was the start of Arthur’s private offices, three rooms just as posh and well-appointed as the rest of Kingsman. The first room, a private sitting room, was lined with bookshelves floor to ceiling and smelled of leather, old paper, and wood. Plush furniture and solid wood tables were polished, but hardly used; the current Arthur rarely entertained guests in this chamber.

Still, the rooms were lovely, with large glass windows that allowed for a lot of natural light, bordered with dark blue curtains that cut the glare of the sunlight. Thomas moved forward, crossing the Persian rug toward the back of the room, where another door opened into the room beyond. He knocked on this door instead of pushing it open.

“Enter,” came the voice, and Thomas pushed through the door and into Arthur’s office.

Chester King sat behind the desk, his hands folded over the blotter. He indicated with a wave of his hand that Thomas should sit; Thomas did so, seating himself in one of the pair of comfortable leather chairs in front of the imposing wood desk. He crossed his legs at the knee, leaning his cane against the side of the other chair.

“You wished to see me?” he asked, giving Chester neither the benefit nor the pleasure of allowing him the first word. Their relationship had always been one of struggle; Thomas toeing the line of duty and obedience to the very edge of insubordination, and Chester’s attempts to find and punish him for his indiscretions. Frankly, it was getting old, as much as he’d enjoyed the game in the past.

Chester seemed unfazed by his abrupt greeting. Instead, he tapped his thumbs together, almost thoughtfully.

“I did, in fact, Lancelot.” The mildness of his tone was dangerous in and of itself. “How are you feeling?”

Thomas almost sneered. Almost. He caught himself on the edge of the expression; instead he chose to turn it into a bland smile. Of course, Arthur would have reports on his health. Morgana made no mistakes and did not hold back relevant information in relation to a Knight’s health. Anything that would render him unfit for duty she would have mentioned, no matter their own personal relationship. She would not – and could not – lie to Arthur in this way.

That didn’t mean that Chester wouldn’t use that information to his advantage.

His heart was working harder than it had to, and both he and Chester knew it. A series of strenuous missions had put stress on Thomas’s body, and while he was in remarkably good health for a man his age due to his training and fitness regimen, it was still the nature of old age creeping up on him that rendered him more vulnerable to the body’s frail and fickle nature. It was only a matter of time before something gave, and fate had decided that it should be his heart. His heart was not getting enough blood, and it would need to be fixed. He had been on leave for the last two months, both to see if the reduced stress levels would have beneficial effects on his heart and to allow him to recover from his last mission.

Morgana had warned him that it was best for him to get the surgery out of the way and return to duty discreetly, but it seemed that Chester had other plans.

Thomas made Chester wait longer than necessary before he answered. “I feel fine. The bed rest did me good, and I am fit for duty.”

“I see,” Chester said, nodding. “That’s excellent news. I called you here to discuss young Percival’s disciplinary measure.”

 _Ah_ , thought Thomas. _Here is where the cat’s paw has cornered me._

“I see,” he said. “You had something in mind?”

It had taken Chester more time than normal to decide on what steps he wished to take. Thomas stepping in and offering to behave as a surrogate to Percival, to take his punishment in the young man’s stead, had been a prize far too sweet for Chester to resist, as Thomas had predicted. No doubt making him wait for the hammer to fall had been a part of these machinations. As it was, almost four months had passed since Martin’s disciplinary hearing.

Thomas knew better to think that Chester had forgotten, and instead had been waiting for the call. His own illness had likely been a factor there as well; no doubt Morgana would have screamed the house down if Chester had attempted to send Thomas anywhere without proper recuperation.

“I do,” Chester replied, and he reached for his desk drawer. For a wild moment, Thomas tensed, remembering Chester’s predilection for shooting men when they least expected it, but all Chester did was withdraw a file folder and shut the drawer.

It was rare to see paper used in Kingsman’s dealings these days – their intrepid quartermaster had developed spectacles that could give an agent information at a glance, as well as allow them to brief someone in near silence if there were listening ears about. It was less traceable, nothing to burn upon reading, and all one needed was a working pair of spectacles and a mirror or sufficiently darkened window.

It wasn’t just the existence of the folder, however, it was also the color. The folder was black as pitch, inky enough that it looked almost surreal against the paleness of Chester’s hand. He placed the file on the desk and slid it forward toward Thomas.

As Thomas reached out to take the file, Chester leaned back. “I trust that it goes without saying that the contents of this briefing do not leave this room.”

Thomas considered their location. Arthur’s offices were soundproofed up to the detonation of anything that would destroy the wall. The glass of the windows was doubly thick, coated with a clear polymer that Merlin had developed to be resistant to most types of kinetic force, from bullets to a direct strike with a hammer. It was unlikely that sound would escape, and any information they discussed in here was private.

Loose lips sank ships, and Thomas was already taking on water as it was. No sense in widening the hole.

He gave a curt nod, breaking the thin line of tape on the folder with his thumb. Black on black, it would keep the folder sealed until the one who needed the information read it. He opened the folder, revealing stark white sheets of paper filled with type. His attention was caught by a small photo, clipped to the front of the stack.

“I know this man,” he said.

“You should,” Chester replied. “Up until forty-eight hours ago, he was the quartermaster for the Sons of Liberty.”

Thomas nodded. He recognized their Franklin. The serious looking snapshot was hardly the norm for the animated inventor, however. Eccentric was a harsh word, but it best fit the man in the photo. Still, several of his advances had been revolutionary in the development of both technical and medical improvements that made Kingsman much more effective.

Thomas started skimming the information as Chester spoke again.

“Seventy-two hours ago, Cecil St. John retired to his Boston townhome. He has not been seen since, but in his possession are several files that are of vital importance to the Sons of Liberty. They’re requesting help from both Statesman and Kingsman to return both the documents and St. John.”

“Alive, preferably?” Thomas asked, still reading.

“Quite.” Chester offered him a blasé shrug. “Though if you have to return him in a body bag, so be it. I’m not about to quibble on that particular point, though Revere might argue.”

Thomas made a noncommittal noise. Mina was very much in line with Lucy’s way of thinking—she wished to be able to redeem everyone. It was something that Beauregard and Thomas had been attempting to change for years. Much like his stubborn protégé, however, her viewpoint hadn’t been swayed.

You couldn’t save everyone, and that was the most fundamental fact of this life. One day, they would see. Or they wouldn’t, and it would get them killed.

Thomas thumbed through the last of the information in the folder, noting his destination. “…Bolivia?”

“Our networks spotted a man matching St. John’s description buying produce in the market there. It matches a purchase that he made some time ago, for some property in the countryside, just outside of Samaipata. At the time, he mentioned retiring, but now Revere fears that there may be something more sinister going on.”

Thomas frowned, but shut the folder and laid it in his lap.

“There is a jet being prepped, but there is time to sort any immediate affairs. You leave in four hours and will rendezvous with Whiskey and Revere in Acapulco while refueling and continue south from there.”

Thomas nodded, rising and buttoning his coat. “Then I should get packing. Unless there was anything further?”

Chester waved a hand as though he’d already been dismissed, and Thomas took his leave, the folder tucked beneath his arm.

* * *

“It’s a brief blip in the schedule,” Thomas said, watching Lucy grumpily stack sterile equipment in the lockers of the surgery. “I shouldn’t be gone for more than a month, at worst.”

“If you keep putting off this surgery, you might not have a month, Thomas Hugh Brampton!” She slammed down the carton of gauze pads she was holding. “Why does everyone in Kingsman take my words as though I’m merely suggesting how best to keep yourself in working order?”

“Lucy,” Thomas said softly, wincing internally at the use of his middle name. He stepped closer, around the ordered chaos of her current workspace, and noted how angry she actually was. Her spine was ramrod straight, and she didn’t relax as he took her carefully into his arms. “I promise you, I will be careful, and I promise you I’ll be back.”

“Liar,” she said. It was without heat, the word resigned and melancholy. He’d told her this many times before, usually right before some terrible stunt that left him bedridden for her to fuss over.

Thomas tucked his fingers beneath her chin, coaxing her gaze up and onto his face. “It’s only a short absence.”

“They’re always only short absences,” she said. Her mouth was pressed into a thin, displeased line. “Thomas, I know that you take my worrying for nagging, but this is a serious matter. I’m saying this because I love you.”

Thomas froze.

Love.

They had spent decades dancing around the word, around the feeling. He kept coming back, and she kept waiting for him. Never before had either of them voiced the words, afraid of breaking the spell – or worse, the words being true.

Lucy cupped his face, her thumbs stroking his cheekbones, and he leaned against her palms. Her eyes searched his face, as though to read his mind, though Thomas could hardly hear anything through the static of his mind, the calm that descended with those words. Time stretched out before him, laying his path, and for once he didn’t dread the finish line.

Tenderness was not allowed to men like him. It was not allowed, nor could it be afforded. How many nights had he sought her out, lying to himself that it was anything but the feeling that roared in his chest whenever she was near? The quiet hum of her presence, setting his nerve endings on edge. How could he deny her?

How could he deny this?

“Thomas…”

“Say it again,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and aching.

* * *

[Six months later]

“Always a short absence,” he murmured, descending onto the tarmac. “She’ll likely murder me.”

Whiskey clapped him on the shoulder as he and Revere descended to board their own planes. “Cheer up. It’s not as if you’re coming home empty handed.”

“We might as well have,” Thomas said.

Cecil St. John was a ghost, gone far before the trio had arrived. His home in Samaipata had led them on a merry chase, culminating in a death trap deep in the forests of Bolivia that had left Thomas feeling more tired than he ought. He was fine, but it wasn’t comfortable being strapped to a chair while an ominous countdown sounded in the background.

Revere and Whiskey had freed him, and they’d destroyed the lab after recovering the materials, but St. John was long gone, in the wind. There would be further searches, but for now, they’d done all they could. They’d agreed to call the pursuit off for now and report to their various agencies. All three would cast wide nets, and they would find the wayward scientist soon enough.

They were feeling a bit defeated, despite the recovery of the sensitive information that had been taken. Whiskey had fallen silent after a while, his attempts to cheer up Revere futile. When she wouldn’t even crack a smile, he’d pulled her into his side and held her for the flight home.

It had hit them all hard. Defeat always did, though one you could walk away from was more of a win than they could expect sometimes. Thomas shook hands with Whiskey and pressed a kiss to Revere’s cheek, promising Mina he would give Lucy his best before he climbed onto the Kingsman Lear bound for London.

Thomas was eager to get the dust off and return home.

* * *

[England – December 1996]

“Let’s see how you’re doing today,” Lucy said, bustling into Thomas’s bedroom as though she owned the place. Reasonably, she probably did, all things considered. Thomas was awake, but only just, and the thought made him smile a little as she opened the curtains and went about checking his vitals.

His surgery had been a success, though it would take some recuperation before he was at full muster once more. Two weeks had passed, and his progress was heartening. While often tired, he was feeling better each day.  Lucy had been staying at Thomas’s house out in St. George’s Hill, using the bedroom down the hall from the master to sleep in. She was keeping a close eye on his recovery, especially after his six-month delay in Bolivia.

Reasonable precautions to take, surely.

Her fingers were chilled on his brow, and he shivered. Still, she was lovely, wrapped in her dressing gown, her hair down and brushing against the shawl she wore. Christmas was slowly creeping up on them, and it had snowed just the day before. He could feel the room still warming up as the heating kicked on again, forcing ancient ductwork to pass warmth into his house.

He slowly pushed himself up onto his elbows, before sitting back against the headboard while she fussed. He found himself reaching up to cup her neck, distracting her from her work, and when she turned her attention from his health to him, he pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“Good morning to you, too,” she mumbled, chuckling a little. “Are you feeling poorly? You’re a little warm.”

“The extra blankets, surely,” he replied. “Will you be having breakfast with me?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “Now let me work and I’ll make us something in a moment.”

Satisfied that his worries for the day were going to be seen to, he relaxed against the headboard and let her check his sutures, change his bandage, and bustle out again. He was content to sit in bed, for once. His time at Kingsman was coming to a close, he’d decided as he’d lain here. There was so much to pursue, so much he’d allowed himself to miss whilst saving the world.

It was time.

He looked out the windows, the curtains open onto a field of white, and couldn’t help but think that he and Lucy had such a clean slate to look forward to now. It made a smile curl the edges of his mouth.

* * *

Lucy sat beside Thomas’s bedside, listening to the rattling of his breath. She resisted the urge to get up and pace, knowing that she’d done everything she could. Pneumonia wasn’t a nil factor, especially after surgery. With careful minding, he would pull through. For now, however, all she could do was wait.

His fever had broken several times, though each time it climbed again. He’d finally lapsed into sleep after taking some of the medication she’d been dosing him with. A whole day and into the night, and if he hadn’t improved come morning, she would summon a cab to bring him to her clinic. She was better equipped there, though her duffel she’d brought had everything he would need post-surgery. He was on a course of antibiotics, though she wouldn’t know how he would fare until he finished them.

She reminded herself that all she could do was watch and wait.

Her vigil had been a long one, but it was one she could handle. She’d been tending to Kingsman Knights for nearly her entire life, and she would see this through, just like all the others.

Thomas’s hand was clammy, but she took it between her palms regardless. She pressed her lips to his knuckles, feeling how his skin scorched against hers.

“Hold on for me, just a little longer, my darling,” she murmured.

Thomas’s teeth chattered as he shivered.

* * *

Harry knocked at Thomas’s door out in St. George’s. It was early, closer to ten than to noon, but Harry had no doubt he and Morgana would be awake. Likely, Thomas would be nagging her to stop fussing and let him out of bed by now. Snow huddled around the stone steps that led to the door, and more flakes were falling onto the wool of his jacket.

It was a beautiful day, at least to Harry, who’d been in Morocco for the past two weeks tying up loose ends on a child trafficking ring he’d broken up last year. Best not to let those get a foothold, in his opinion. He welcomed the chill in the air, the heat of Africa always making him feel a little wilted.

He waited.

When more than a few minutes had gone by, he rang the bell. While not a large house compared to some of the mansions in the area, it was possible they hadn’t heard him. Still, the long silence made him uneasy, something making the hackles on the back of his neck stand at attention. The chill no longer felt welcome, working icy fingers beneath his woolen coat.

Another press of the bell, and at last he could hear footsteps moving towards the door. He heard the heavy locks being thrown, and he relaxed into an easier stance, his hands crossed over the handle of the umbrella that rested, ferrule down, between his feet.

Lucy opened the door, blinking at him in the brightness of the snow outside.

“Harry,” she said. Her voice sounded scratchy, disused. Or like she’d used it too much. Her dressing gown was disheveled, her shawl thrown over her shoulders lopsided as though an afterthought.

“Am I interrupting, mum?” he asked quietly, rolling his eyes toward where he knew Thomas’s master bedroom was in the house. A cheeky smile rested on his face, though he had no doubt she would swat him for it. “I can come back after lunch if you’re otherwise occupied—”

“Oh, Harry,” she said softly again, and the hackles on his neck rose once more. “It’s—”

“Is he doing all right?” Harry asked. Something was wrong. It ticked in the back of his head, like a timer on a fuse.

Morgana’s face looked…brittle. Like porcelain being degraded from the inside out, crumbling to powder but for just that one moment, still whole on the outside. Dark circles beneath her eyes, lines around her mouth, she looked older than he remembered just two weeks ago, seeming bent more with age now as she held the door. Blue eyes were glassy as she looked up at him once more.

“Harry, Thomas is gone.”

“What?” he asked. For a brief, wild moment, he thought she’d meant that she sent him somewhere.

“He passed, this morning,” she said. “He caught pneumonia, and his body couldn’t handle the added stress.”

For a long moment, he goggled at her. Thomas was dead? Surely not.

Harry broke out into nervous laughter. “That is a terrible joke, mum.”

“It’s not a joke, Harry,” she said, her tone soothing and gentle.

Harry was already shaking his head. “This is no longer amusing. Let me in.”

He pushed on the door, and she didn’t resist, letting him push past her and into the warm foyer of Thomas’s home. This was where he’d learned the finer points of Kingsman life, and there was no room in this house that he did not know every nook and cranny.

He’d learned to cook in the kitchen, memorizing and personalizing recipes with Thomas’s hired chef. He’d learned the difference between a fine brandy and swill in the library, and he’d almost broken his neck on the stairs trying to get to Thomas’s guest bedroom after he’d been too drunk to drive home. He’d been given his first bespoke in that very foyer, the garment bag feeling heavy and portentous in his hands.

“Thomas!” he called. “Your joke is in the poorest taste, old man.”

His voice echoed in the house. Too large, too cavernous, as though Thomas’s presence had fled in the night. Harry swallowed, glancing into the study as he passed. Empty, the rich leather chair facing the door.

His long legs took the staircase two at a time, the thud of his heart and his ragged breathing making him stumble as he reached the top. The doors here were shuttered, just as Thomas preferred, closed up rooms used to direct the heat to his rooms as well as any others in use. The master bedroom door was open slightly, the bright morning sunlight pouring in through the windows and leaving a thin beam of light trailing across the plush carpet.

Harry regained his footing, moving with long strides down to the door and opening it wide.

“Thomas—”

He stopped.

If asked to remember what it was like, his mind would later gloss over the blur of it; right now, Harry Hart was a man divided. His mind, the logical, solid part of him that was good in a fight and even better in dire straights was informing him that the figure there in bed, lying sunken and pale against the coverlet was indeed Thomas Brampton, and he was very much dead. The rest of him, the part of him that had never really gotten a grasp on losing someone fully—backed into a corner in a cacophony of denial.

Harry Hart was no stranger to death; indeed, in his callow youth he often thought himself its master.

This was not the death he shook hands with on a regular basis. This was something far more insidious and frightening, sliding beneath the doorframe and stealing someone away in the night. This was monstrous.

Thomas looked far too small, shrunken against the plump pillows and rich fabric, his hands resting against his chest as though he were simply sleeping. His eyes were closed, sunken into his face, and he was thin, too thin to be the robust man he knew.

It was the brightness of the silence, the bloody quiet of the room, bathed in the white outside of sunlight reflecting off of the snow, to sear it into his memory that finally forced action from him. He backpedaled, one foot behind the other, until his heel slipped and he landed on his arse in the middle of the hallway, scrabbling backward to get away from that hateful light, pulling himself into shadow until he was backed against the wall, his knees to his chest like a toddler that had experienced his first night terror.

He pressed his face against his knees, his fingers gripping the fabric of his trousers. His breathing was sharp and terrible, rattling in his lungs as he clung to the only thing that felt solid on that December morning – himself.

Thomas was gone.

_His father was dead._

He didn’t remember much else for a long while, not until the sound of the door opening and closing in the distance registered faintly into his mind. There was conversation, the rumble of a familiar voice, and then there was someone kneeling beside him.

“Harry,” Merlin murmured. Harry lifted his head, though it took an effort to focus on Merlin. His partner’s eyes were dark with concern, the grey flecks in his hazel eyes making them seem almost like wells of gunmetal.

“Merlin,” Harry said. His eyes rolled toward the bedroom, and he grabbed the sleeve of Merlin’s jumper. “He’s—”

“Shh,” Merlin said, running soothing fingers through his hair. “Mags told me. Come on. We’re going to get away from here for a bit.”

“No, he needs—” Harry stopped. He had no idea what Thomas needed. This was completely out of his scope of experience. Nothing had prepared him for this; his education was lacking. He gestured helplessly.

“He has what he needs,” Merlin said, tucking his fingers beneath Harry’s chin and turning his gaze away from that room filled with baleful light. “Morgana is here, and she’s making the proper calls.”

The proper calls. It sounded so…distant. So clinical. Harry wanted to scream, but all that emerged from his throat was a croak. It occurred to him, vaguely as though he were several miles away from his brain and listening through cotton, that Merlin was using this language to help compartmentalize. Whether it was for himself or Harry, only Merlin could say.

“Someone should inform Kingsman,” Harry said. “I should—”

“Harry,” Merlin said. The firmness of his tone grounded Harry in a way that had always been familiar. Merlin was his handler. He could—and did—trust him to guide him through this. “Let that be someone else. For now, you need a cup of hot, sweet tea, and a moment to decompress. Let me take you home.”

Slowly, as though from half a world away, Harry nodded. He struggled to his feet with Merlin’s help, leaning heavily on him as he realized being curled into a ball had put his feet to sleep. He stumbled a bit, but soon the pins and needles gave way to feeling again. It was enough to navigate the stairs, and he managed. It was all he could do at the moment.

Morgana was waiting at the foot of the stairs, her shawl righted and her hair up in its familiar neat twist. She still looked tired, but there was a directness about her that he recognized. She was all business and would be until she got a chance to be alone with her grief again.

“Mum,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Oh, Harry,” she said.

He opened his arms and they clung together. She rocked him as if he were a babe and didn’t tower over her, bent over her to clasp her in his arms. His eyes were hot and dry, and hers were the telltale red of recent weeping, but they both seemed to draw strength from the contact. Harry knew that he did, the smell of her, clean and fresh though without perfume, a comforting smell in all dire straits. It was usually the scent that woke him in the infirmary, and it calmed him now. Morgana was here; things would be all right.

She pulled back at last, cupping his face.

“Merlin is going to take you home,” she said. It wasn’t a question, and he nodded.

“I’ve phoned Percival and Tristan,” Merlin said softly. “They’ll be here within the hour. You’ve phoned Central?”

She nodded, swallowing hard. “I have things here. Rest assured, we’ll give him the very best.”

Harry’s jaw ticked, his hands lifting and then dropping in a helpless flutter. “Can I…?”

“Harry.” Morgana fixed him with the look she gave him when he was being terrible at sitting still. “Go home, rest. Recuperate. I have things here. Trust me.”

“I—of course.” He gave another croaky noise, cleared his throat, and nodded. She patted his cheek and saw them to the door.

Merlin wrapped an arm around Harry’s middle, leading him into the hateful brightness of the world outside. The fresh air slapped him in the face with its chill. He felt like his whole body was an overexposed nerve, but it wasn’t until he was buckled into the passenger seat of Merlin’s little Citroen that he realized he was trembling. He was shaking like a leaf and Merlin climbed in beside him, turning the heat on full blast.

Harry stared out the window as Merlin navigated down Thomas’s long drive to the main road. A bubble of bitter laughter rose in his chest as he caught sight of a truck with a large fir tree bound up and in the back. Merlin glanced at him, and Harry felt the need to explain.

“The bastard always hated Christmas shopping,” Harry said.

He wept.

* * *

Tristan was fielding phone calls, which left Percival with precious little to do. He remembered that people found food comforting at a time like this, and that’s where Lucy found him, a pot of stock bubbling away on the stove as he carefully cleaned and chopped vegetables.

It was the one recipe he knew how to do, at least without starting a fire. He turned his head as she entered the kitchen, the blade of the knife poised mid-slice.

“It smells good,” Lucy said. She looked far older than Martin had ever seen her. It was disconcerting, in a way that he couldn’t quite place, and he merely shrugged.

“You’re managing everything else, but if you forget to eat, you’ll be more tired. Physician, heal thyself.” He continued to chop until the carrots and celery were finely minced, then he swept them into the pot. She gave him a wan smile but sank into a seat at the kitchen table all the same.

“Tea?” he asked. She nodded, almost automatically, and he bustled to do that, his fingers itching to do something to help. Tea he could manage, for everyone save Harry—who only seemed to drink tea that Merlin fixed him. Biscuits weren’t hard to rummage up, and he set a plate with some on the table as he let the tea steep.

He finished what he needed for the soup and took a seat across from her once he’d washed his hands.

“…how are you feeling?” he asked. It was awkward, a half-question formed and blurted before he could control himself.

“Stretched thin,” she said as he poured the tea. She poured in a little milk and took a biscuit, though she merely turned it in her fingers as she contemplated the swirl of milk in her beverage. “I…”

Martin took a biscuit as well, gently breaking it in half and dunking it into his tea, his attention on her. She worked through it, lips quivering as she tried to sort through her feelings.

“I told him that I loved him, just before he left for Bolivia,” she said at last. “Part of me thinks that perhaps that was what tipped the scales out of our favor and our luck ran out.”

“You’re a terrible scientist, then,” Martin said. She blinked at him, lips pursed as she tried to follow his reasoning. “I thought that was one of the more basic tenets of any field of analytical study – correlation does not equal causation.”

She gave him a weak smile. “I suppose you’re right.”

He folded his hands beside his cup and fixed her with a serious glance. “Tell me this. Do you blame me for Thomas’s death?”

“What?” Lucy shook her head. “Of course not, why would I?”

“Because my insubordination got him sent to Bolivia in the first place,” Martin said seriously. “If he hadn’t gone, who knows how the surgery and recovery might have gone differently?”

“I wouldn’t blame you for that,” Lucy replied. “You were willing to take that punishment. Thomas stepped in because he believed your lesson already learned.”

“Then why blame yourself?” Martin asked. “You’re the finest physician I’ve ever seen. I don’t think there’s anything you could have done differently that would have changed the outcome.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Lucy said, taking a sip of her tea at last. She dunked her biscuit, taking a bite and chewing. Martin nodded, hoping that she was taking the question as seriously as he’d posed it. He was helping, somehow, and that would be enough, surely.

He rose to stir the soup, reducing the heat to a simmer, and he busied himself with it while she pulled a handkerchief from her dressing gown pocket to dry her eyes. For a moment, the only sound was Lucy’s quiet sniffling and the low bubble of the pot on the stove.

“Martin,” she said. He turned, only to find her standing. She opened her arms, and he stiffened. “I’m not going to bite you, silly boy, we’ve been over this.”

For a moment, his heart thudded in his ears, and he must have looked like a cornered cat, because Lucy’s arms dropped slowly. Against his instincts but desperate not to disappoint someone already grieving, he stepped forward, into her embrace, and folded his arms awkwardly around her. He had no idea what to do with his hands, one of them awkwardly patting the padded shoulder of her dressing gown.

“Thank you for trying,” she said softly, and he felt himself relax with her words. She didn’t expect him to be perfect. It was that he was trying that was important. She squeezed him and stepped back.

Martin lifted his head and caught sight of Wes standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb with his arms folded. There was a shite-eating grin on his face, but Martin’s urge to bite back with something sarcastic was tempered, for now.

"And his heart grew three sizes that day."

"You're a brave man to say that while I'm close to a knife."

“I’m not stitching either of you up,” Lucy declared, sitting right back down at the table and reclaiming her tea cup. There was a small, genuine smile on her face, however.

Wes just grinned wider. Martin settled for rolling his eyes and going back to his soup.

It was an argument that could keep for another day.

* * *

Morgana blew past Guinevere like a raging storm, ignoring the secretary’s calls to stop. She’d been here far longer than Chester’s current flavor of the month, and it was quite obvious that she wasn’t sure what to do with someone who just bowled her over. Usually it was Chester’s presence at the shop that kept people from behaving poorly, but it was the man himself that had drawn her ire. She opened the heavy, weighted door, unsurprised to find it unlocked.

Stepping inside, she shut it behind her to keep out prying ears.

The plush rooms beyond held none of her attention as she marched straight into Chester’s office. Arthur was in the middle of his morning paper, but he folded it as she shut the office door behind her as well. Some sense of propriety made him rise, but she ignored it, knowing it was yet another tool designed to put her off her guard.

Arthur was the viper in the grass, and she was in his den.

“This is unexpected,” he said. Truly, it was; usually it was the opposite, with Arthur seeking his physician down in the deeper tunnels beneath the estate. For her to make the trip into London and march into his office, she would need to be wroth indeed. The open door belied his words, however. If he really wished his solitude, he would have locked his office down.

He gestured to one of the plush chairs, indicating she was welcome to sit; she remained standing.

“I doubt you truly think so,” Lucy said, placing her hands on her hips as she let her stare bore into Arthur. When he neither confirmed nor denied the accusation, she shook her head. “You’re sending Galahad into the field despite my recommendations.”

“He has a duty to Kingsman, first and foremost,” Arthur replied, his tone flat and disinterested. “I should think that you, of all people, would understand that.”

“The man lost the closest thing he had to a father three days ago,” Lucy returned evenly. “We buried Lancelot less than a day and a half ago.”

“Men don’t grieve as women do,” Arthur said with a shrug. He moved around his desk and toward his sidebar, where breakfast had been laid out for him. He took his time, pouring himself a cup of coffee and doctoring it just so.

“Which is why you thought him mentally fit for one of your ridiculous ‘black file’ missions,” Lucy said. His gaze, for the first time since she’d stepped into the office, narrowed on her. “I’m their physician, did you think I wouldn’t find out, or did the possibility just never cross your mind?”

Chester shrugged again. “If it did, it never mattered. I considered your input, but given the urgency of this mission, I have chosen to do otherwise.”

Lucy came close to stamping her foot. “You have no less than eleven other Knights to do your bidding, you can grant Galahad the leave I ordered for him—and don’t think I don’t know that he and Percival are the ones carrying out the brunt of these tasks, Arthur. We weren’t placed in this organization because we’re stupid.”

Arthur turned, then, stalking toward Lucy. She knew him – knew every stride was plagued by a bum knee, reinforced with surgery on the mission that took him from the field at last. He was a large man, and old age hadn’t changed that—he was nearly taller than Harry. She stood her ground, drawing herself up to her full height, almost mentally cursing her sensible flats. Five feet wasn’t much, but she had more than that to bring to bear.

“I know you were placed in Kingsman because you’re a physician, not a Knight,” he said. “Titled, for all the good it’s done you. You’ve placed on hold missions of minor importance for a healing Knight, but something of this caliber cannot wait.”

“Which is why I told you to send another Knight, Chester,” she said. His tone had that dangerous edge to it, but she lifted her chin and met his eye. “I think you’ll find a full roster of more than just the ones you consider to be troublemakers. Why not send Gawain?”

“Gawain is on mission in the Hebrides,” he countered.

“He got back last week, well rested and full of haggis,” she shot back. “If not Gawain, why not Bedivere?”

“Scheduled for South Africa,” he said.

“Not for another month,” she said. “Why are you insisting that this must be done by Galahad?”

“Why are you insisting that it shouldn’t?” he snapped.

“Because he is not mentally equipped to handle a strenuous mission right now!” she cried. “If you were to actually meet with him instead of assuming that everyone’s heart is as coal-dark as your own, you would know that he’s in mourning!”

“That is not an acceptable reason to stay this mission,” he said. “You’ve become softer. I remember telling you that these men are not your sons, they are soldiers.”

She moved without thinking, like a snake striking. The arc of her palm was quicksilver, and she connected with his jaw hard enough to send him a step backward, his coffee sloshing over the rim of his carpet and onto the rug. The slap rang through the room, echoing flat as the walls kept the blow between them.

Her palm stung, but it was nothing compared to the anger in his eyes as he moved forward.

“You treat them like soldiers, but refuse to respect them, and so I must care for my _sons_.”

Arthur set down his cup, though he didn’t retaliate for the strike. Instead, he rubbed his jaw, flexing it as though testing the sting of the blow. His gaze was calculating, but he said nothing for a long moment. Her heart thrummed in her ears, the beat as fast as a hummingbird’s wing.

“You truly loved him, then,” he said. “To protect his legacy so.”

“Of course I loved him,” she said. “He was everything that you could never have hoped to be.”

“Mm.” He pursed his lips, then rolled his shoulders before he turned to pick up his cup and moved around the desk to seat himself again. “This once, I will accept your strenuous objection and I will choose another Knight from the roster.”

She smoothed her skirt and took a breath. “I’ll inform Galahad.”

“Mm,” he said again. He took a sip of his coffee, and then set it on the desk. “Consider it a favor to a grieving widow. As I am sorry for your loss, you see. I’m granting you a month of bereavement as well.”

“That’s not necessary—”

“What’s good for the gander is good for the goose, Morgana.” He fixed her with a look. “You will be escorted from Kingsman grounds if I find you in your offices until the end of December.”

“Arthur—”

“Enough, Morgana,” he snapped. “Consider it administrative leave for your little show of insubordination just now.”

“Fine.” She blew out a breath through her nose and conceded this. “Is there anything else you wished to discuss?”

“Not at this time,” he said. He waved a dismissive hand. “Enjoy your holiday.”

 _Bastard._ She turned on her heel and marched from the room.

* * *

The slamming of the door made Arthur wince. She would sulk, but it would be good for her. He returned his attention to his current task.

_Coming, Gawain?_

Chester shook his head to clear away the echo of that familiar voice, picking up the paper again and thumbing through it for where he’d stopped skimming when Morgana had made her entrance. He found what he was looking for and laid the paper flat, taking a pair of scissors from his drawer and trimming the article out. Making sure that it was neat, he disposed of the rest of the newspaper by tucking it into the incinerator chute behind his desk.

It was a small article, hardly befitting the man’s presence, at least here in Kingsman.

_Lord Thomas Brampton, aged 59, passed away at his residence at St. George’s Hill after an illness. Beloved uncle to George, Franklin, and Genevieve, brother to Susan and Kathleen. Services to be held 15 th December at St. George’s Church, Esther._

The sparse paragraph said nothing about the man. Just the way Kingsman intended. It seemed strange, really, holding the slip of paper between his fingers. He felt sure that he would have been succeeded by Thomas out of spite.

Chester took the clipping and moved it to a folder buried deep in his desk. Slim by Kingsman standards, the folder held very little by design; he’d burned the rest. A photograph, a few official documents, and now the obituary rested there. He tucked everything back into its place, and then took another sip of his coffee.

He’d won, but it felt hollow. Perhaps because Thomas had denied him the satisfaction of wringing his neck with his bare hands. Chester’s lips lifted in a morose sort of smile, but he didn’t dwell on it for long. He had much more work to do.

Picking up the phone, he dialed out. When the receptionist picked up, he made his request. “Mr. Spencer, please.”

He’d need to field his own replacement for their missing Knight, after all. Mr. Spencer’s son was without work, and it was currently shameful to his father that his son couldn’t seem to find a place that wasn’t the tabloids.

Well, Chester was a problem solver, and he’d seen the young man’s scores on the range. He felt confident he could offer an alternative to Mr. Spencer’s problem – and if that didn’t prove the case, engineering an accident wasn’t hard either.

It would be a win for everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait, Constant Readers -- my hard drive blew up finally so I needed to wait for an upgrade to come in. Still, this is a nice meaty chapter, so that should make up for it. Still working six days a week, so writing happens when it happens, but I am still working on my projects. In Bloom will be finished, though not by April like I thought because life has a way of laughing at me about that.
> 
> If you enjoy this or any of my works, please feel free to leave me a comment. Kudos are fantastic, but comments keep me going because they let me know I've engaged you. If you don't feel like commenting, please consider a reblog on tumblr -- help me gather more Constant Readers! Thank you again. :)
> 
> New Face Claims:
> 
> Cecil St. John -- [Stanley Tucci](https://d3hp8xnxb3lun4.cloudfront.net/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/StanleyTucci_01_206-f6-straightened-CMYK-1200x777.jpg)  
> Whiskey -- You might know him as Champ. ;)  
> Revere -- Is the Sons of Liberty's Adams before she takes the title.


	3. Cat's In the Cradle - Part One (Concurrent during The Secret Service)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin has a request of Roxanne.

The door chime for his flat sounded in his study. Martin looked up from his paper, nodding in approval. Ten minutes early, good. Roxanne was punctual, and she had the same innate need to impress that James had, though his tended more towards flashy clothing and combat than punctuality.

Martin pushed the memory of his partner away for now, knowing that the swell of grief inside him would do neither of them any favors. Choosing to give into that despair at the moment would only make him wallow, and he'd done enough of that when Galahad had brought him the news before the meeting.

Harry and Merlin, bless them, they knew that he didn't deserve to learn of James's fate from their gathering. Hearing it from Arthur's lips first would have killed him dead on the spot. It didn't change anything, however. James was gone now, all that there was for it was to choose his successor.

He knew that this wouldn't be easy on Roxanne. While she carried herself with that singular purpose that he admired (and had in fact been encouraging ever since she was in primary school), there was still a tense line to her jaw and her eyes were puffy with weeping. She had been grieving, too. It had taken him nearly twenty-four hours to work up the nerve to even ask this of her, carefully weighting the pros with the cons.

"You wanted to see me, Uncle?" Roxanne asked as she peered into his study and found Martin awaiting her.

They'd long since passed the formality of knocking, and he'd summoned her specifically. She had a key to both his and James's flats here in London, and her graduation gift had been a key to Martin's apartment he kept on the French Riviera. There was very little he kept from Roxanne; what he did keep was because it was between him and James, or it was the reason he'd called her here today. Soon, he would lay everything at her feet.

"I did," he said, rising as she entered. She was demurely attired, in slacks and a blouse, black with pinstripes. Her flats were sensible, but it was obvious she was in deep mourning. She had her hair bound in a careless twist, sending strands of blonde hair cascading over her ears. He moved around his desk, clasping her shoulders in his broad hands. "How are you doing?"

"Things have been better," she admitted, looking away. "It's still hard to believe he's gone."

Martin said nothing, merely chafed her arms gently. She was handling things about as well as he was. When she moved to hug him, he circled her in his arms, resting his cheek on her hair.

What he was about to ask her was unconscionably cruel.

Martin had never claimed himself to be a kind man, however. Practical, yes, but never kind, not when it came to the truth.

"Sit down, Roxanne," he said, pulling away after a moment. She allowed him to guide her to one of the high-backed chairs by the fireplace, sinking onto it with that same almost boneless Spencer grace that James had. It made everything they did look effortless, and Martin almost smiled. Almost. "Would you like a drink?"

She looked up at him, sensing his seriousness. While he'd never been the good-humored sort that James had been, there had always been an easy familiarity between himself and his pseudo-niece. She, out of perhaps everyone on earth, understood him. She could read the minute shifts in his mood where even James might have missed a step. Now, she could see his somber demeanor, and she tilted her head curiously.

"A drink?" she asked. This was a rarity; while James had insisted that Roxy know her alcohol and her tolerance, rarely did Martin offer her a drink in such a manner. She was of age (and had been for a few years now), but it was a grave matter of some import for the more serious of her uncles to offer her something from his sideboard rather than something non-alcoholic.

"Brandy," he said. "I think you will want it by the end of this conversation."

"…okay," she said. For a moment, he remembered her as he'd first met her, a little girl in a pinafore hiding behind her mother's legs, staring up at him with the largest blue eyes he'd ever seen. His vision shifted back, and she sat before him, a young woman, grown up in her own right.

Doubt plagued him as he moved to pour. Who was he to ask this of her? Would it be too much for her to bear, to grow up too fast in a life that had suited him just fine? He took a breath, pouring them both generous fingers of amber liquid from the crystal decanter on his sideboard and carrying them to where she sat. He handed her one, then took a seat in the chair's mate, crossing his legs at the knee.

He watched her from the corner of his eye as he gathered his thoughts, turning the glass in her hands as though unsure whether or not she wanted to drink it.

"Do you know what my occupation is?" he asked her, rolling the brandy in his glass. He took a sip, letting it burn a trail down his throat.

"No," she replied, clasping the glass in her hands, the contents untouched. "But I know that you and Uncle James worked together, and that you traveled a lot for work. It seemed an awful expense just for a tailors’."

"Smart girl," Martin murmured. "Though I can hem trousers if pressed. No, what your uncle and I did was something far more important. What I want to ask you is: can I trust in your complete confidentiality?"

"Of course, Uncle," she said. There was no deception here; Roxanne had always been respectful of his and James's need for privacy. She had never pressed, and they had never felt the need to explain to her. Now, Martin found himself somewhat stymied by the prospect.

"You served in the ROTC," he said instead, looking for a way to segue into it. "How did you find it?"

"Agreeable enough," she said, cocking her head at him. "I was slated for extra training. They wanted me to consider going into special forces. Uncle Martin…"

"Your mother didn't want you to join the military?" he asked.

Roxanne shook her head. "Too worried about losing me. She fusses."

As well she should, Martin thought. With the loss of James, he wasn’t the only one left bereft. James’s sister, Amanda, was James’s fraternal twin. She’d lost a bond that was special in its own right. Losing Roxanne, too…

Again, he doubted his decision, but he pushed it to the side.

He nodded instead, shifting a bit in his seat. He wasn't a fidgeter by nature, and Roxanne picked up on it, reaching out and laying a hand on his forearm. He covered her hand with his own, patting gently.

"What is it, Uncle Martin?" she asked softly. "Whatever has happened, you can count on my support."

A ghost of a smile touched his mouth, quirking the corners up. A good girl, his Roxanne.

"I have a proposal for you," he began. "It won't be easy, but it will be infinitely rewarding. It will be lonely work, but you will never want for fulfillment. I know that's why you've taken this year off after graduation."

Roxanne gained spots of color high on her cheeks, and Martin nodded. He'd nailed the reason why. She could have gone into pre-law, like her father, but he had a feeling that a barrister's life wasn't for her. Roxanne had that wanderlust, the urge to be something _more_.

The urge to transform.

"You will never be able to speak of your accomplishments," he warned. "There is no thanks for what you do, save for the companionship of your peers. Your name will appear in the newspaper exactly thrice: upon your birth, upon your marriage--should you choose to wed, and upon your death. The title you take will be known only to you and your compatriots. Being able to keep a secret will be your bread and butter."

"Are you MI5?" Roxanne asked. Sharp as a tack, she was, and Martin shook his head with a tiny smile.

"Not quite," he said. He rose, setting his glass to the side on the small table between them. "But also almost."

He moved to the mantel, his fingers finding the odd bit out and settling against it. The mirror above the fireplace shifted back and up, revealing one of the many caches of weapons that Martin stored amongst his flat's walls. The cache folded forward, displaying a sniper rifle and several magazines, as well as a grouping of lighters, two spare pistols, and several knives.

"Uncle Martin?" Roxanne asked. Her face was a mixture of curiosity and wariness, blue eyes darting from the cache to him.

"My code name is Percival," he said, turning to face her, his hands clasped behind his back. "I am a member of a secret organization known as Kingsman. We work independently to ensure the safety of the free world."

"Is this a joke?" Roxanne asked, looking about her as though checking for hidden cameras. "I could expect it from Uncle James, but--"

"No, Roxanne," Martin said. "Your uncle was also one of our number. We called him Lancelot."

She swallowed hard, her throat working. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I have a proposal for you," Martin replied. "You have the potential to become something more, and if you succeed at the trial, you will be my peer, and I don't doubt that you could surpass me, given ample opportunity and the correct training."

He adjusted his cuffs, revealing the Bremont on his wrist. Her eyes were wide and round, and Martin wondered if he'd misjudged her drive. Had he only imagined that flash of stubbornness in her eyes?

"You have a chance to transform," he said. "James is no longer with us, but you can continue his legacy. Become Lancelot. I can guarantee that this will be unlike any job in the world -- including the interview. If you accept, we start tomorrow."

"And if I refuse?" she asked. Her eyes darted to his face and then to the guns aligned neatly over the mantel.

"Then I put you to sleep, you wake up at your mother's London flat in the morning, and this will all have seemed like a fanciful dream." Martin's expression didn't change, and Roxanne bit her lip. "No harm will come to you, should you refuse. This I swear."

"And if I accept?" she asked.

"That depends upon your skill," Martin hedged. "Wounds are not uncommon for a Kingsman, but neither do we shy from danger."

Scores of emotions flickered across her face, and Martin watched her consider his proposal. She was strong enough, he had no doubt. Roxanne was a smart girl, capable and caring in all the ways he didn't know how to be. She would thrive with the training.

He believed in her utterly and without question.

She seemed to come to some sort of conclusion, because she looked down into her glass before she met his eyes, that same Spencer fire revealed in her gaze.

"My mother will be furious," she said. She stood, draining her glass in a single go. "But you were right about the brandy. We start tomorrow."

Martin nodded and poured her another drink.

* * *

Roxy awoke in darkness. She groaned, her head pounding from the brandy, but when she moved to sit up, she found that she was quite unable to do so. She took a deep breath, fear settling into the pit of her stomach. She could smell petrol, rubber, and the peculiar tang of metal that one got when one was working on an automobile. She looked about her, and spotted the glowing plastic of the trunk release above her head.

Roxy had been bound, hand and foot, and stuffed in the boot of a car.

Panic enveloped her, folding black and stinking wings around her senses, and she struggled, wrenching her hands back and forth. She barked her knuckles on the metal of the boot and swore softly, the scrape sending fire through her hand.

It brought her back to cold logic, and she stopped, breathing heavily. She calmed herself by looking about her, squinting. It was too dark to make out anything but the glowing plastic handle of the latch release. She stilled herself, feeling the sway of the boot as the vehicle trundled over a piece of rough terrain.

_We start tomorrow_.

Apparently, tomorrow was now. Roxy focused on her breathing, using the mental quiet to figure out what was binding her hands. It felt like duct tape, but her captors hadn’t bound her hands completely. She remembered her Uncle James taking her aside when she turned twenty-one, showing her how to break restraints.

A little unorthodox for a wealthy family like the Spencers, but then, James had always bucked the societal norms. Add onto the fact that she had been kidnapped once before, when she was very small, and it was a reasonable assumption to make that she would need the training.

She could break out of zip ties, duct tape, and even electrical tape, though that was much harder than the tape binding her now (too sticky and the tape itself stretched, meaning she needed more energy to get herself free).

She focused now, remembering James’s calm instructions as he stood over her on the mat. He’d put her on her side, just like this, and bound her wrists and ankles far more tightly than her captors had. Her wrists were taped together, wrapped round with duct tape, and she brought her knees to her chest, placing them between her chest and her bound wrists.

She could feel the way the boot of the car swayed, carrying her god knew where, and she swallowed down that panic once more. She gave a sharp jerking motion and the tape tore, releasing her wrists. She hissed as she barked her knuckles again, and she could feel the sting and the warm well of blood. Roxy froze, listening. She could hear the radio, muffled through the back seat of the car, and smell the faint tang of old cigarette smoke and greasy food. They didn’t seem to have heard her break her restraints, and she let her head rest against the cloth of the back seat, listening.

There was mumbled conversation, but she couldn’t hear a word through the seats and over the radio. Still, she had enough to know that there were at least two of them.

It would be fine, she told herself.

Her clothes had the faint stench of petrol, as though she’d been lying here for a while. She stuck her knuckles in her mouth, the brassy tang of her own blood centering her and making her feel eerily calm. She reached down and freed her legs. She was glad they’d bound her trousers instead of her bare ankles, but she could feel the telltale tingle that meant the limbs were asleep. The swaying of the car continued, and she closed her eyes to the darkness, focusing on the motion and what it could tell her.

Right, then the vehicle continued on. She held her breath, counting heartbeats as the car drove. A left. Fifteen heartbeats later, and it made another left.

They weren’t driving recklessly; if they were, she was sure she’d have been woken much sooner. The sway of the car was that of a driver being a model citizen. Difficult to explain a body in the boot when pulled over for a speeding ticket, after all, she thought wryly. Her mouth felt like she’d been chewing bloody cotton balls, and she inhaled—slow, easy breaths to keep her bile down so she could work. Her groping hands found nothing but the bare walls of the boot, until her fingertips brushed the metal handle of the vehicle’s jack.

They were either amateurs, or this was a part of Uncle Martin’s test, and he’d placed the item there specifically to see what she would do. Roxy carefully worked the metal handle free from the jack, hefting it. It would do as a fine, if short, club.

It might not get her far, but she could only plan so far when trapped in the boot of the car. Next steps would come when the vehicle stopped. She flexed her wrists, then stretched as best she could. Ballet had thankfully made her flexible, and she could feel her tendons give in a familiar stretch as she crammed her back against the side of the boot to give her legs room for the blood to flow.

The static feeling was fading, but not soon enough for her liking as the car slowed to a stop.

She could hear the murmur of men’s voices approaching the boot, and she slowed her breathing, her heart threatening to race out of her chest.

Plain as day, she could hear her Uncle James in her head, as though he were standing next to her on the sparring mat. Barefoot and dressed in their workout clothes, he’d gestured for Martin to join them. They’d taken up opposing positions between her and the exits, and her unease had turned real as their faces had gone blank. No longer were they her uncles. They’d been her opponents.

_What do you do when you’re outnumbered, Roxy?_

_You fight dirty. You do whatever it takes to get away and fight another day._

_Good girl._

She gripped the handle of the jack, her face scrunched in determination.

The boot of the trunk opened, blinding her with the light from overhead. She swung upward, feeling the jack handle connect with a meaty crunch as she got the first of the thugs in the jaw. She backhanded with the jack handle, catching another one in the nose, and balled her legs beneath her to leap from the trunk. She landed, rolling hard on her shoulder and skidding, but got her feet beneath her enough to get a good glimpse of her surroundings.

They were in a garage of some sort, a parking structure. There were three men, two of which she’d wounded badly enough to enrage. It would be enough to stop anyone without serious intent to hurt her, but the third was reaching into his coat for a weapon. She couldn’t stop now.

Charging forward, Roxy screamed in anger, clocking the man in the temple. He howled, clutching at his head. The other two were coming around, and Roxy focused. She went for the nearest man, swinging the jack handle like a club. Another hit to his head, and he crumpled to the ground.

One grabbed her from behind but she smashed the back of her head against his nose, kicking out at the man approaching from the front. Her aching head made her vision go grey at the edges, sending her stumbling from his grip as he grabbed at his ruined nose.

The man on the ground swiped at her ankle, and she stomped down hard on his hand, snarling. Her palms were sweating, making her almost lose her grip on the jack handle, and she turned, looking for the third man, only to freeze as she looked down the barrel of a pistol.

“Don’t fucking move,” he growled, spitting on the ground. “Drop it.”

The jack handle clattered from her hand, rolling away as she released it from nerveless fingers. She swallowed, lifting her chin imperiously at him, as though daring him to pull the trigger. In reality, she was checking her exits, looking for ways to get away if she could. Her eyes darted this way and that, but the parking garage was level, concrete, and—save for the vehicle that had brought her here—deserted on this floor. The vague incline meant she could see cars on the next level above and below, but they would be no help to her, not if she couldn’t get to them without being shot, and the man had her dead to rights.

“Caused us all sorts of fucking trouble,” grumbled the man. He squinted at her, his nose bleeding freely. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile.

A flicker of motion at the corner of Roxy’s vision almost made her look; instead, she kept her gaze on the man as he dialed, his eyes on her as he thumbed through his address book. Placing the phone to his ear, he spat on the ground again.

“Yeah, I got her,” he said, speaking to whomever was on the other end. “You sure she’s the one? She put up a—”

His words were lost in a choked gurgle. Roxy looked on in numb horror as a blade appeared from his Adam’s apple just as Martin stepped into view, jerking the thug’s hand with the gun to the side. A bullet skipped off the pavement, ringing metallic in the air as the scent of gunpowder filled her nose. Martin kicked the man in the small of the back, sending him barreling into the side of the car.

“Roxanne,” he said. He held out his hand to her, bloody short sword in the other. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, mute. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing this to all go away. Instead, she was enveloped in Martin’s arms, her forehead pressed against the woolen shoulder of his coat. She realized she was shaking now, and she pressed her lips together, keeping the hysterical scream threatening to bubble up buttoned tightly behind her teeth.

“It’s all right,” Martin crooned at her, his voice low and soothing. He ran a hand down her back, and she shuddered.

“I—” She looked up at him, seeing his dark eyes narrowed in concern for her. “I wasn’t able to pass your test.”

Martin blinked, then shook his head.

“You did well, Roxanne. You did better than well, you did far more than I ever hoped,” he said. His big palm rubbed at her bicep, making her lean into his touch, even as she shook. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

“They…” She looked at the three men who lay prone on the concrete, red stains seeping outward.

“Don’t,” he said. “Focus on moving forward.”

She allowed herself to be turned away, sparing one last glance to the fallen men. Martin led her outside of the building, into the fresh night air. She had no idea where they were, but it didn’t seem to matter; Martin had found her anyway, keeping tabs on her most likely. She gave a shaky inhale, the fresh air making the inside of the garage seem like a bad memory.

“How do you feel?” he asked her, his hand on the small of her back.

Rather than answer, she retched into the strip of grass that bordered the parking lot. Martin nodded, as though he expected it. He handed her his handkerchief when she was done, and she wiped at her mouth, her tongue tasting foul.

The headlights of a car washed over them, and she froze. Martin’s expression didn’t change; he stepped up to the black cab, opening the door and holding out his hand. She took it, letting him guide her into the car. He took a seat next to her, nodding at the driver. Soft music played as she sat back on plush leather seats, her head spinning with the events of the night.

The clink of ice startled her. She didn’t realize her eyes had closed, but she opened them, finding Martin holding out a glass to her. Something fizzed, and her stomach turned at the idea of more alcohol.

“Nothing but ginger ale,” he assured her. His eyes were on her, searching her face. She took the cold drink and sipped, willing her rebelling stomach to settle.

“I failed the trial,” she said softly. “I’m sorry.”

“You had knocked out two of them by the time I arrived, leaving me to deal with the third. You provided an excellent distraction for another agent in the field to exploit. Roxanne, you didn’t fail. You passed with flying colors,” Martin said. He tilted his head to her, his expression unreadable. “Would you like to back out?”

She considered. The men in the garage…they were dead. She hadn’t killed them, but they were dead all the same. Could she do the things that Martin had done, seeming with no reaction at all?

“I…”

Martin was silent, watching her from across the cab. He sat, every inch the gentleman, his legs crossed at the knee and his hands in his lap. The short sword was nowhere to be found, but she didn’t remember much after she’d sat down in the cab. Had she imagined it?

What would her uncle James do?

She looked down at the glass of ginger ale, willing it to give her some answer. She didn’t feel remorse for the men in the garage; they had intended her harm, and she’d fought with her life on the line. She was alive, they were not. That was the simplest, most primal feeling she had, and it was…correct. She could still feel the traces of adrenaline in her system, coursing through her veins and making everything sweeter, sharper.

She licked her lips, tasting the remnants of the ginger ale.

“I want to continue,” she said. She looked up at Martin, her blue eyes locking with his. “Show me. Teach me how to do this.”

“You will have to work thrice as hard for half the recognition,” he warned her. “There is only one woman in the organization that is titled. What we’re about to embark upon is nothing short of blasphemy.”

“Let them try and stop me,” she said. She lifted her chin, and she saw the glint of pride in his eyes. “I want a shower, and then I want you to tell me everything, Percival.”

“As you wish,” he said. He signaled to the driver, who turned them homeward.

* * *

“I need cleanup at this address,” Martin said, once Roxanne was safely ensconced in the guest bathroom with a fresh change of clothes and the water running hot. Merlin gave him a look as they spoke in the mirror above the hearth, his projection the same eerie green as the rest of Martin’s heads up display.

“What happened out there?” Merlin asked, his voice stern as Martin transmitted the location along with photographs of the scene.

“An unexpected kidnapping,” Martin said. “I’m uploading the sim card from the ringleader’s mobile. I need you to trace the number of the last call.”

Merlin sighed. “Who was it?”

“Likely someone after Johnathan’s money,” Martin said. “She took it well.”

“You mean you told her it was part of her initiation,” Merlin guessed, making Martin’s lips thin in the mirror. Merlin met his gaze, frowning. “You’re going to have to tell her.”

“Eventually,” Martin replied. “When there’s time. For now, we must choose our new Lancelot, and I need her clear-headed.”

“You know her best,” Merlin sighed softly. “Harry’s found his recruit as well. He’s just contacted me. You two are the last.”

“Mm,” Martin said. He inhaled, looking about his study. “Are you shocked?”

“No,” Merlin said. “Harry the perpetually late was no surprise. You’re grieving. You could have sat this one out—”

“No,” Martin said. “You know what that would mean for me. And potentially for you, if it were to come to light that you knew and didn’t report us.”

“Martin…”

Martin’s head swiveled to the sound of the water stopping, and he touched his spectacles. “I have to go.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Merlin said. His tone said that the conversation wasn’t over, but Martin’s spectacles’ HUD faded out, leaving him with nothing but his thoughts as Roxanne reappeared, dressed in soft sweats and barefoot, her damp hair curling about her face.

“How do you feel?” he asked her.

“Ready,” she replied.

Martin sincerely hoped so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is more to this, but it will have to be saved for another chapter. It's gotten so long that it would be unwieldy if I were to try and include everything I want to in it. Soon.


	4. Memories (Post TGC)

“Country road, take me home, to a place I belong…”

Harry’s head snapped over to look at Merlin, standing on the mine and drawing the guards forward. This was a suicide play, and they both knew it. Merlin stood on a land mine. There was no disarming it now that the pressure plate had been depressed. He and the Scot shared a look, as both of them knew what this entailed. He saluted his comrade, squeezing his shoulder with a quiet platitude.

Really, what could he say?

There wasn’t anything he could have done to save their wizard, and he felt awful about it, but the mission came first.

So why didn’t his feet seem to want to move? Why was he glued so tightly to the spot, frozen, as Merlin’s deep baritone echoed through the jungle? Why couldn’t he breathe, as though he were seeing Merlin for the first time? Why did it feel like someone had taken hold of his heart in their fist and squeezed?

Cambodia was devilishly hot, his suit sticking to his back and his thighs as he sweated, standing still as a stone. He could just barely see Eggsy with the same horrified expression on his face, at the edge of his limited vision. Not for the first time during this crisis, Harry cursed his inability to act, his inability to keep Merlin safe.

 _Just like last time_ , his mind whispered to him. _Just like Rhodes._

_What happened in Rhodes?_

_You don’t remember. You don’t remember anything. Harry Hart, you bloody great fool. You’re old and useless, even now._ His mind yammered at him.

Harry could feel the beads of sweat sliding down his temples. His mind flickered between here and now and the conversation they had just before they left.

_Harry Hart, super spy. **Really.**_

_“Don’t you remember? My favorite singer is John Denver.”_

Harry hadn’t. He didn’t understand why his mind was zeroed in on it now. The edges of his vision fuzzed black, his mind going numb as he could feel the featherlight brushes of the butterflies returning—

Like a colorful whirlwind, they descended, flickering his mind through past, present, and memory.

Why had it been important that he remember? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t know why it tugged at him.

“West Virginia, mountain mama, **take me home, country roads** —“

 _“Do you have to sing that?”_ _Harry was lying on his stomach, tracing long fingers over the curve of Merlin’s hip as the wizard fiddled with a new piece of tech. They had agreed to one of their rare nights in, spending the night at Merlin’s flat rather than meeting up for a needy, hasty shag and Harry disappearing like a thief in the night. While he relished spending time with Merlin, there was something about the wizard’s musical taste that left a lot to be desired. Harry was more interested in the slope of Merlin’s shoulder, feathering kisses across it as he adjusted his position to mouth gently against warm skin._

_“I like John Denver,” Merlin said primly, but acquiesced to humming instead. “One of these days I want to visit those country roads, see what he saw in the wide expanses of the Americas. He really loved it out there.”_

_“Then we’ll go, dove,” Harry said, feeling foolish and full of promise and youthful bluster. He kissed his shoulder again, nibbling with the barest hint of teeth. “We’ll go together.”_

_Merlin’s humming eventually stopped as Harry’s fingers wandered lower, and Merlin set his tools aside to turn more into Harry’s attentions._

He snapped back to himself with a start, his ears ringing from an explosion. Merlin’s singing had stopped. Grief, real, palpable, chest-stopping—

It welled up and his one good eye went red at the edges. He couldn’t breathe; he forced himself to breathe. He would rest when this was done. He would—

Harry Hart – **Galahad** – returned, his knuckles sprayed with blood. His aim was not off any longer. The butterflies didn’t threaten now. He was whole, and back to par—

He was staggering through it with a gaping hole in his chest.

* * *

His limbs felt like stone as he sat on the diner stool. The smell of blood and gunpowder was rife in the air, cutting through the smell of old grease that hung in the diner like rancid memory. Harry had never felt so old in his entire life. A part of him wished he had decided to go on to become a lepidopterist. Maybe then he wouldn’t know how much dying had hurt.

Eggsy sagged beside him, waiting for their extraction. The young Galahad sat, eyes closed. His fingers were closed around his shattered phone, and his jaw jumped every so often. The twitch was enough that Harry realized that Eggsy was struggling not to cry. Harry lifted an arm that might as well have been lead and placed it on Eggsy’s shoulder.

“Does it ever stop hurting?” Eggsy wondered. His voice was raw, and his throat worked as he swallowed hard.

Harry took a deep breath, his mind hissing like static.

“No. It just hurts a little less. But we carry on. We should honor their memory in that way. Roxy, Martin, James…Merlin. They would have wanted it that way.”

“We should see if…if there’s something to recover.” Harry looked at him, blank. “If we can bring…bring him home.”

Harry’s breath stopped. He forced himself to inhale.

_“You’re a good man, Merlin. I’m going to discover a new species of butterfly and name it after you,” Harry said. He was still fuzzy on a lot of things, but Merlin, as the man was called, had been so kind to him. He’d brought him a cup of tea in the surprisingly chilly air, and even lent him his warm field coat like a proper gentleman. It was nice to see, so far from home. Harry couldn’t remember why he’d been in Kentucky in the first place; perhaps it was to search out new species or confer with a colleague._

_Either way, there’d been a warmth about the other man that had drawn him in. It was like Merlin was holding a part of himself back, something he didn’t want Harry to see. It made Harry want to dig it out, hold it in his hands, warm it with his palms because he sensed it was for him. Merlin didn’t act this way around the Statesmen, or even the lovely Ginger Ale. It was just for him, as if they were drawn to one another._

_“You’ll be leaving tomorrow, then?” Merlin asked, his tone as well as his questions full of caution. For himself or Harry, Harry couldn’t tell. He studied the other man with his one good eye. His jaw was lovely, even as tensed as it was, the line of his neck strong and hinting at broad shoulders and a muscular chest. While Harry had dabbled in school, he’d never had a serious boyfriend; his parents would have been mortified. Now that he was the only one left, however…_

_He opened his mouth again, but the words wouldn’t come. If Merlin was being aloof, it was for a reason. Perhaps it was to protect Harry from this organization further. Perhaps it was to protect himself. He stopped, took a breath, and nodded._

_“We’re going to miss you, you know,” he said. Harry wanted to ask if he meant the boy, Eggy, or just Merlin himself, but he found that he was afraid of the answer._

_“You’ve been kind to me, and for that, thank you. Sincerely.” Harry smiled. Merlin’s eyes were shuttered, something locked behind the hazel depths. Harry broke his gaze away. “I should pack. I have a long trip tomorrow. My first time in an airplane. Th-that I can remember.”_

_“Of course,” Merlin said. He swallowed and stepped back, putting his hands behind his back and clasping them there. “Have a safe journey.”_

_Harry walked away, still swathed in the folds of Merlin’s jacket, and he wondered why it smelled so familiar._

“I can’t, Eggsy,” he said. He still had that field jacket, tucked away amongst his things on the plane. He’d meant to give it back after the mission. He gave a shaky inhale, breathing in the smell of grease and death. “I can’t. Please don’t ask me to—“

“Harry,” Eggsy said. The younger Galahad turned to him, gripping his arm so tightly it was painful. Harry grimaced, and Eggsy relaxed his fingers. “Harry, you don’t have to. It’s okay. You don’t have to. The mission’s over. We saved the world.”

“We did,” Harry agreed. It was cliché, and so he didn’t add the obligatory ‘but at what cost?’ to the end of his thought. He took a deep breath, feeling his emotions beginning to well up in his mind again. “Tell me about Tilde.”

Eggsy talked. Harry had the feeling that Eggsy needed the cheering up even more than he had, and he let his successor’s words wash over him and numb his brain to the point where he felt like he could function, at least for a while.

“—to Galahad and Galahad, uh, senior? We really have to fix your code names.” Ginger Ale’s voice floated over their comms, making them both straighten up. “I repeat, Central to Merlin and the Galahads. I am en route to your position. The antidote has been registered as being distributed and cleanup is beginning. Good work, gentlemen.”

Harry nodded. Time to go. He rose, setting his feet on the floor and feeling the creak in his knees he always hated as he stood. He had never felt so old in his entire life.

“We should tell her about—“

“Please rendezvous with Merlin outside the gates, I’ll be with you shortly.”

Harry and Eggsy’s eyes met. He put his fingers to his glasses. “Ginger, I’m afraid to inform you that, well, Merlin is…”

“You should check again,” Ginger said. Her voice was somber, but sure, and Harry couldn’t help but compare it to Merlin’s reassuring brogue in his ears. It was comforting. “Because I’ve got eyes on your suit’s biometrics right now, and Merlin is still breathing. His heart is beating, although he’s got a faint pulse. It’s possible he’s been wounded, but I can’t be sure from here. I need eyes on him, please.”

Harry and Eggsy stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, then Eggsy broke and ran for the gates, with Harry not far behind.


	5. Butterflies and Mourning Doves (Post TGC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 
>       
>     
>     
>         _Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road
>     Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go
>     So make the best of this test, and don't ask why
>     It's not a question, but a lesson learned in time
>     
>     It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right
>     I hope you had the time of your life
>     
>     So take the photographs, and still-frames in your mind
>     Hang them on a shelf in good health and good time
>     Tattoos of memories and dead skin on trial
>     For what it's worth, it was worth all the while
>     
>     It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right
>     I hope you had the time of your life_
>     

The rap at his door left Merlin cold in the stomach. His visitors were always calculated and scheduled by Merlin himself, as the wizard liked to know who was coming and going at all times. His home was still not on the official Kingsman rolls, and his flat in Whitechapel was under an assumed name.

Since Poppy’s missile attack on their headquarters in London and the estate in the countryside, Merlin was more wary than ever. Being proven right was cold comfort in the face of the organization that he’d nurtured since his early twenties going up in several well-timed strikes. Merlin wasn’t about to take chances now that there was someone out there ready and willing to finish the job. Kingsman had many enemies, not all of whom were apparent at first glance.

His dogs, always attuned to their master’s habits, had all fallen silent. Various rescues and drop outs from the Kingsman trials, each were well-trained and alert in their own right. Eleven in total, none of them had made a sound when the knock happened. They looked to Merlin for guidance, and his wariness echoed their own.

Artemis and Apollo, two of the larger animals, Dobermans with sleek black coats and rich brown points, moved to his hips, cropped ears perked and lips writhing back from white teeth in the dimness of the hallway. Merlin could feel the dogs’ tension, every animal in the hallway with him coiled and ready to do what they could to keep their territory safe. He rested a hand on Apollo’s shoulder and could feel the dog trembling. They pressed against his legs, moving with him.

He drew a shaky breath. There couldn’t be any more mistakes. With Eggsy married off to Tilde, Merlin was left rebuilding Kingsman alone. Ginger Ale had offered to help, but really, her heart was at home, shouldering the responsibilities of taking on the Whiskey position. The Statesmen were rebuilding their own ranks, though they hadn’t suffered near the losses of Kingsman.

Lancelot, Percival, Gawain, Galahad…the names went on. Only Merlin and Morgana remained, and they had agreed that it was time to start a new round table. They were currently scouting for new recruits, though it was slow going due to the nature of their business.

Harry was gone. He’d left on a plane, bound for the Maldives, hunting new species of butterflies in Asia. His memories had never been returned to him, and while it was a constant sliver of pain in Merlin’s day to day life, it was far better than letting the poor man suffer. They had done what they could for him, and Merlin had felt it was best for Harry in the long run.

_I’d rather smash this cup, and slash my wrists. If you’re a true friend, listen very carefully: I **am** myself. This is me. You have to let me go._

There was no one left. It left Merlin feeling bereft and not a little lost, digging through the ashes of what remained to try and rebuild alone.

Merlin drew a spare Tokarev from the coat closet, concealing it behind his back as he lifted the privacy curtains that covered the cheery little windows that bordered his solid oak door. The windows gave him an excellent sightline to the street, allowing him to assess threats as they approached. Normally he would have used his cameras, but being in the house meant that he was going to have to do something about the untimely knock himself, and he always did have a knack for hands on work.

Merlin froze. The silhouette he recognized, the face was one he’d run his fingers over many, many times. The soft curl of sandy hair had gone salt and pepper with age, though it still draped across his forehead with an almost insolent air of untidiness, begging to be tamed with pomade and a comb. One eye was covered with his dark glasses, the other was curved into soft laugh lines and focused on the door. He didn’t seem to notice Merlin peering through the curtain at him. Merlin couldn’t breathe. He gave a choked noise, his voice raw in his throat. Artemis whined, ears swiveled forward as she regarded the door.

Harry Hart stood on his doorstep.

A traveling case rested beside his ankles, a puppy on a harness beside his feet. He carried a wrapped parcel, and he watched the door expectantly. There was no sense of hyperawareness about Harry. He carried himself with the same relaxed demeanor he’d had when he boarded the flight abroad almost a year and a half ago. Galahad would have cased the block first and would have one ear tuned to the street behind him for threats, but all that remained in Harry’s stance and expression was a sort of oblivious complacency.

It was almost obscene, seeing Harry this way. Like looking into a mirror of what might have been in his own life if they’d met outside of Kingsman, and Merlin felt a little ill at the thought. Merlin tamped down the expectant thoughts and emotions that welled up, realizing that nothing had really changed; as he did, he dropped the privacy curtain and called out.

“Just a minute.”

Hastily, he shoved the Tokarev into the umbrella holder, still within easy reach. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been betrayed by an old ~~lover~~ acquaintance, and old dogs learned new tricks all the time, as he liked to admonish Eggsy. He disengaged the locks with care, knowing that the wrong sequence would trigger his dead man switch and bring Eggsy running. He took a shaking breath, willed his hands to still their fidgeting, and opened the door.

Harry’s smile was angelically indulgent. He was brown from all the sun he’d gotten, his glasses perched on his nose and hiding the sight of his ruined eye. Merlin had made him the spectacles as a final gift, and Harry had taken care of them in his time abroad. The black lens was opaque, but the warm brown eye that remained was fixed on his face with an almost shy sense of wonder. It was as though Harry hadn’t expected him to be here.

It was completely endearing, and also completely alien to see on Harry’s face. Harry looked at him in a way that he never had before. It caused a surge of old memories to well up, but Merlin realized he was standing with the door open, the dogs crowding around his hips to see their visitor for themselves. One by one, their tails began to wag as they caught Harry’s familiar scent.

Oh, to be a dog and be able to welcome someone home regardless of the changes in themselves, Merlin thought.

“Harry,” he managed after a moment. “I never gave you my address.”

“I know,” Harry said, his smile turning mischievous. “I had a card from that lovely Ginger woman. She said to call if I remembered anything or if I needed anything. And I didn’t need anything until about a month ago, when I called her and asked for your address.”

“Oh.” Merlin made a mental note to both thank and admonish Whiskey for that. She was only trying to help, but at the same time, he could have shot the man he loved. The man he loved but didn’t remember him. Or anything else.

Best to stop that train of thought right there. He cleared his throat. “What brings…what brings you here, Harry?”

Harry peered past him into his warmly lit flat. “May I…come in?”

A wrinkle appeared between his brows, consternation mixing with just the slightest disgruntlement at being caught off guard, but he stepped away from the door and gestured the dogs back to the sitting room.

“Please,” Merlin said. He hesitated, glancing at the bag and at the parcel in Harry’s hands. “Can I help you bring those in?”

“No, thank you,” Harry said primly, but he held out the leash. “But you can say hello to Mister Gherkin whilst I bring them in.”

Merlin could have sobbed, but he made his face carefully neutral, dropping smoothly to a knee to greet the tiny pup. He gave a whole body wiggle as puppies were wont to do, and shot into Merlin’s hands, licking his fingers gently and nipping at Merlin’s thumbs.

Mister Gherkin. _Of course._ The name was so bloody Harry Hart that Merlin might have choked on it. It was akin to walking into a room one visited every day, only to find that the furniture had been moved six inches to the left and everything was either just a smidgen too large or too small. He felt clumsy and old, and as he gathered up the puppy and stood, he found Harry watching him with an expression of open fondness.

They froze there, for a long moment, Merlin’s hazel eyes locked on Harry’s warm brown one. It drew out into what felt like an eternity, Merlin waiting on Harry to do or say something that would wake him from the nightmare he’d been living since he’d let Harry board that plane in Kentucky.

“Apologies,” Harry said, moving at last.

He preceded Merlin into the sitting room, where the dogs were all lounging on their respective beds. They were interested in the puppy, but Merlin had trained them well enough that they wouldn’t approach without his say-so. Harry took them all in, their tails wagging as he glanced at each of them in turn.

“You keep a crowded house,” he said, his tone light. Merlin’s lips kicked up in a small smile.

“They needed me,” he said. His brain was screaming, but he forced himself into normality. For Harry. It was what was best for him. “Just as Mister Gherkin needed you, I imagine. You needed each other. You look well, Harry. Tea?”

“Yes, please,” Harry said. Merlin ushered Harry to one of the squashy armchairs by the fireplace, and Harry settled the puppy into his lap, his long fingers going immediately to stroking the dog’s soft fur. He crossed his elegant legs at the knee, doting on the puppy as Merlin made his escape to his kitchen.

He disappeared behind the swinging door, taking a heaving, shuddering breath as he ran the water to mask the sound of his abrupt breakdown. He squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the sides of the sink with hands that went white at the knuckles. He couldn’t do this.

He had to do this.

For Harry.

Somehow, he got the kettle filled and on the burner. While the water bubbled, he pulled out what he could for tea, settling biscuits on a plate before he returned to the sink. He splashed water on his face, relishing the sting of cold droplets against his skin before he patted his face dry with a paper towel. As the kettle whistled he added the boiling water to their mugs, midway through the motions before he realized that Harry might not want his tea the same way anymore.

Merlin hadn’t asked. He’d simply gone and done it, with a spoonful of sugar and a splash of milk, enough to lighten the brew just a little.

The reality made him drop a spoon, the clattering of metal jarring in the quiet of his kitchen.

“Are you quite all right?” Harry called.

“Fine, fine,” Merlin called back. “Don’t worry about me, just clumsy.”

He placed both of their mugs on the tray with the biscuits, bringing everything down and settling them on the small table between them. He handed Harry his mug, taking his own in his hands. It was ugly, but his favorite. Orange and obnoxious, there was a bright yellow sun on one side with a cartoonish grin on its anthropomorphized face, with _Bon Dia from Barcelona!_ scripted on the other side in garish yellow-orange paint strokes. He wrapped his hands around the mug, willing his fingers to stop their nervous dance.

“Ta, Merlin.” Harry closed his eye and took a long sip of the tea, missing the twist of pain that flashed across Merlin’s features. Harry looked down at his mug in surprise, glancing at Merlin as though it was strange that Merlin should know how he took his tea. Merlin didn’t look at him. He couldn’t. He couldn’t shut out the sound of Harry in the same room, however. He’d ached for the sound for a year and a half; he told himself that it had been better that the world had Harry Hart in it in some capacity, rather than he got back Harry Hart whole.

Harry sighed, leaning back more in the chair that had held his long frame more times than he remembered. Merlin kept his eyes on the fire in the fireplace, scratching Artemis’s ears. His voice broke the silence after a long moment. “I have a gift for you.”

“The visit was surprise enough,” Merlin protested. Harry gave him a look that was so positively Harry that Merlin felt sick. A fondly exasperated expression, as though Harry had expected him to decline at the first. Merlin swallowed another sip of his tea instead, to let his thoughts coalesce into something more coherent.

“Yes, but as I’ve already gotten it for you, mightn’t you open it?” Harry asked, his tone not quite the wheedling one he’d gotten when he was attempting to get out of medical leave. Merlin gave himself a sharp mental shake, trying to avoid seeing what wasn’t there any longer. He lifted the parcel from where it rested beside his chair, handing it across to Merlin.

Merlin took it with steady hands, and he praised himself for that. It was about the size of a common hard back novel, rectangular. It didn’t weigh much, but then, Merlin had never judged anything by appearances. There was a crazy, skewed moment where Merlin’s whole perception of the world pitched and yawed. The errant thought that if anyone would want to hurt Merlin and they knew anything about what happened, this would be the way to do it. Place a bomb in a wrapper and hand that box to an oblivious Harry Hart – knowing that Merlin could not deny the former knight anything, not even the heart that still thudded painfully in his chest.

The box was covered in brown wrapping paper and stamped with customs clearance. Merlin carefully slit the taped end with his fingers and unwrapped the box. Plain cardboard met his fingertips, and he pulled the box from it. He glanced at Harry and caught him watching Merlin with a sort of anticipation, his smile guileless as Merlin unwrapped his gift.

Merlin almost (almost) wished for it to be a bomb. Let his last memory be that smile, that way he might have the option of remembering his life as one in which he and Harry crossed paths and stayed on the same road. Almost.

Not quite. Not ever touching, perfectly parallel, just out of reach. Always.

Instead, Merlin opened the cardboard box to reveal a slender picture frame. Framed in rich wood with clear glass over the top, Merlin realized it was one of Harry’s butterflies. It was a pretty thing, green-gold in the wings with an impressive wingspan. It was nearly the size of his palm with the fingers spread wide, and as Merlin tilted the frame to get a better look, he noticed that there were parts of the wings, closest to the body, where there were little windows that were clear as the glass that held them.

He inhaled. “This is…”

“Yours,” Harry said, Mister Gherkin snoozing beneath his fingers. “I told you that I would, and I am a man of my word.”

Merlin must have worn a strange expression, so Harry pointed at the bottom of the frame. Beneath the beautiful creature, preserved under glass, in Harry’s neat, precise cursive, was the butterfly’s scientific name.

_Merlinum Imperialis._

“Oh, Harry,” Merlin said. Emotion bled into those words, something raw and aching, and he closed his eyes.

“You don’t like it,” Harry ventured. Merlin gave an almost violent shake of his head. “I’ve overstepped a boundary.”

“Harry, no, no. It’s nothing like that.” Merlin took a breath, willing air past his throat that seemed to want to close into a knot. “I just. It’s overwhelming, seeing you again. I had thought that you were settling into your new life as a lepidopterist.”

“I…was,” Harry said, hesitating. His single eye flicked down to the puppy in his lap and then back up again. “But all through my travels, I couldn’t stop wondering about you, sir. You are, and have been, an enigma of an acquaintance. I must admit that I am not terribly fond of puzzles, but perhaps could make an exception for this one.”

Merlin gave a disbelieving bark of laughter, something between a laugh and a choked snort. He pressed his palms to his eyes and rubbed hard, willing the spots in his vision to make this all go away.

To make Harry go away.

He’d never seriously wished it before. Perhaps he’d thought it once or twice when the man was being insufferable and they’d been bickering, but it had never been serious. Merlin had known early on that a life without Harry Hart was not one he was looking to live.

And now, here he was, wishing that he could live it.

Harry’s voice gained a querulous note as he continued. It made Merlin look over and pay attention. “I’m not…good with interpersonal relationships. I must have read something wrong. Perhaps our interactions before were…”

He trailed off, frustration etched in every line of his features, as though he were struggling with himself to grasp something that even he couldn’t name. Like he was looking for a word that was on the tip of his tongue and it was going to escape him, even with the aid of a thesaurus.

“You know me,” Harry said, inhaling. “You know everything about me. You know about Mother, you know my brothers. You know about my father. You know my shoe size, my hobbies. My habits. You know how I take my tea and how much I like this particular biscuit—“

Merlin glanced at the plate. He’d kept the biscuits in stock at his flat for years, out of habit, and he hadn’t even thought about popping more into his basket as he’d shopped. He lifted his eyes to Harry, who was watching him with a lost sort of expression.

“You say you were my friend. If…if that’s the case, and that’s all we were, then you and I have shared a closeness that I have never experienced with anyone. But I look at you and…I f-feel…” His face pinched hard, the skin around his one good eye going taut as Harry attempted to coalesce reality to the fiction that had been built in his head by the nanites that saved his life. “I don’t know what I feel, Merlin. But I should very much like to keep feeling it. With you.”

Merlin looked down at the butterfly in his hands, his fingers rubbing the polished wood of the frame. He searched for the words, for the phrase that would make this all better. That would make Harry remember. According to Whiskey, there was no such phrase, anywhere in the world nor in any language, that would bring his Harry back to him.

Harry would continue along this path, occasionally finding bits and pieces of himself like sea glass buried on a sandy beach. Sometimes it would be benign and smooth like a pebble that you take home as a holiday souvenir. Other times, like now, waves of memory would not have rounded the edges and they would slice themselves open on it.

The question was…would it be too painful to bear? Valentine’s bullet had stolen so many things from Harry. His life. His memories, his skills. His time. Could Merlin shoulder the burden and bear it, alone if need be, until Harry passed from this world into the next?

He had already determined that he was being selfish, wishing that Harry were hale and whole before him, his hair falling in an indolent curl across his brow as they talked of inconsequential things. Was it selfish to give this back, to tell Harry of how much more they had been, how intertwined their lives had really been, how Merlin would rather cave in his own chest and carve out his beating heart if it meant that Harry no longer suffered?

“Harry…” Merlin started. He stopped, searching for the words. How did one quantify the thirty-plus years of their acquaintance? How did one even begin? He was at a loss to describe it, especially to the man who should have known that there were no words for what they had.

“…it’s all right,” Harry said. He broached the distance, long and elegant fingers crisscrossed with a network of almost delicate scars across the knuckles, belying the times they’d been split open in a fight. He reached out, taking Merlin’s hand in his own. His fingers still bore the trigger calluses of his youth, still traced the same over his skin.

Warmth still bloomed at Harry’s touch, the old familiar feelings welling up through cracks in Merlin’s soul, leaking through and suspending him in emotions he didn’t have words for right now. He lifted his gaze, looking at Harry as the other man squeezed his hand.

“We don’t have to pick up where…we left off.” Harry’s words were halting. “Perhaps, instead, I could call on you for dinner?”

“I…” Merlin knew that his heart had decided for him while his head was still debating. A life without Harry Hart in it was no life he wanted to live. There was no sense in punishing Harry for something that was hardly his fault. Nor would it do to punish himself. “Of course, Harry. Would you like to go out, or stay in?”

Harry’s smile was grateful, lighting his face with something that dropped the years away. Merlin got a sudden flash of what might have been, years and years ago, had they lived another life. Instead, he got a second chance to do things over. To do them correctly.

“I should very much like both,” Harry said. “But I think meeting for dinner would be best. Shall I pick you up at eight?”

“Aye. I’d like that very much.” Merlin’s breath caught as Harry rose, pressing his lips to Merlin’s knuckles with one hand as he collected Mister Gherkin with the other. Merlin rose as well, setting his gift and his tea mug aside. He walked Harry to the door, Harry taking his travel case with him.

When Merlin glanced at it in askance, Harry flushed.

“I must admit, I was so excited to get back home to England and…well, to you, that I rushed straight here from the airport,” Harry murmured. “I still have to arrange for a place to stay. It seems the flat I was supposed to have was one of the ones that was destroyed in the nasty business a year and a half ago.”

Merlin swallowed hard. “Ah, that’s right. I’d forgotten.”

“I suppose I shall have to find accommodations at a hotel until I get that sorted.” Harry’s smile was bright and cheerful. “Still, I have my health, and Mister Gherkin. And dinner with you. Not much more I would ask for in life.”

Merlin wrapped his arms around Harry, pulling him closer. He was careful to avoid the puppy in Harry’s arms, instead just pressing his forehead against Harry’s shoulder. It was familiar and alien all at once, and Harry’s hand on his back was soothing despite his befuddled expression.

“Don’t worry about letting a room,” Merlin mumbled. “Stay with me. Just until you’re back on your feet.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asked, his brows lifting in surprise.

“I’m sure,” Merlin said, looking up at him and nodding. “I’ve not been sure of much over the last year and a half, but I’m sure of that.”

“As you wish, dove,” Harry said.

* * *

“ _Out of date, perhaps, but who wasn’t these days? Out of date, but loyal to his own time. At a certain moment, after all, every man chooses: will he go forward, will he go back? There was nothing dishonourable in not being blown about by every little modern wind. Better to have worth, to entrench, to be of one’s own generation._ ” Harry’s voice rose in smooth, elegant waves over the man sleeping in the bed. He’d been at this vigil for close to a week now, waiting patiently by Merlin’s bedside. He turned the page of the novel, the Le Carré in his hands not really distracting him from hoping that Merlin would wake to the sound of his voice.

There had been a steady stream of visitors in the room since their return from Poppy’s hideout. First had been Eggsy, who’d seemed inclined to camp out with Merlin before Harry had reminded him that he had other responsibilities now – namely the woman who loved him recovering from a grave poisoning. Eggsy was with Tilde now, but he’d already facetimed with Harry once over video chat, with Tilde joining him to thank Harry and to meet the man that had molded her fiancé into the man he was.

Harry found he liked Tilde. There was a guileless mischief about her that suited Eggsy very well. He was looking forward to their impending nuptials. That was one thing that the ravages of the enemy had not managed to take from them: happiness could be found, if one looked.

Their next visitor had been Whiskey and Tequila, both of whom had shaken his hand in thanks before offering quiet condolences.

Champ had been by as well, offering Harry everything in his arsenal as support for Kingsman rebuilding. He’d taken Champ up on his generous offer, earmarking a distillery in Scotland, sixty kilometers south of Glasgow. The negotiations were still in place, and Kingsman would soon have another base of operations from which to rebuild.

As the hours eased toward the early morning, however, there was just the soft beep of the monitors watching Merlin’s vitals and the sound of their breathing, now that Harry had stopped reading.

Harry closed the book, marking his place with a slip of paper. He set the novel down beside the bed, taking Merlin’s hand in his own. Merlin’s fingers were chilled and unresponsive, but his eyes flickered back and forth beneath the lids as he dreamed. Harry tried to recall all the jargon that Whiskey had data dumped at him about comas, and found that he was quite unable to recall if dreaming and REM movement meant that Merlin would wake soon.

Harry was grateful that Merlin was brilliant. He regularly thanked their lucky stars for that, honestly, but this time had been the closest in recent memory (and he grimaced as his thoughts made that pun, because really, he could remember the gunshot from Valentine). Still, Merlin had been his usual brilliant self, thinking he could get all the gate guards and save himself in the process.

He’d been partially right.

The chemical goop that Harry had tossed out of the cabin in Italy had been a recent Kingsman innovation, and of course Merlin had begun to tinker with it before they’d left for Cambodia. He had been looking to merge the two technologies: the displacing chemical as well as the healing nanites from the headshot kit. He’d almost been there when Eggsy had demanded that he and Harry go so that they could stop Poppy, and naturally, Merlin had taken it with him.

That, combined with the Kingsman bespoke, had saved his life – though not his legs. Shrapnel had severed Merlin’s legs at just below the knee, the bandages hidden beneath the swathes of the blankets that covered his wizard’s frame. The chemical stilling agent had hardened around the rest of Merlin’s body, the excess of nanites swarming into his bloodstream and clotting the wounds almost immediately. However, Merlin had lost too much blood by the time Harry, Eggsy, and Whiskey had gotten to him. The nanites had forced him into a coma for healing to begin.

Harry was just grateful that the man before him still drew breath, that he slept beside him still.

He rubbed his thumb across Merlin’s knuckles as the door to the infirmary shirred open, admitting Whiskey. He had to admit, she’d risen much higher in his expectation as a field agent, stepping into the role left by her predecessor neatly. He admired how she balanced both field work and her usual research not just because it was beneficial to Statesman, but because she enjoyed her job and was naturally curious. She gave him a tiny smile as she saw he was still awake.

“Still reading him that espionage novel?” she asked.

His lips kicked up. “It came very highly recommended from a friend of ours. How he can be in the same business we are and still devour paperback dime novels like comic books I will never know. However, this one is certainly good.”

“I’m glad,” she said. She bustled about, adjusting Merlin’s blankets and checking his vitals. She consulted her charts again, her smile widening. “He’s doing much better today. We’re seeing more REM activity, and that usually signifies that the nanites have done their work preventing bleeding to the brain.”

“Will the same memory effects…” Harry gestured to his own temple. Whiskey tilted her head, frowning as she considered. “Will he remember?”

That was the cut, wasn’t it? He could lose Merlin just as easily as Merlin lost him. He might see him breathing, walking, talking, and the man might not have any memory of him whatsoever. Harry’s mind whispered that it was better than him not being alive at all, but it was still something that clawed at his throat. The misses were becoming nearer and nearer all the time.

There must have been something desperate in his eye, because Whiskey shook her head and moved to where he sat, squeezing his forearm.

“That’s not something I can assess until he wakes,” she said, trying to soothe him. “When I said that the brain is like a computer, it meant only that connections that were severed can be made once more. There wasn’t any brain damage, but the blood loss was so heavy that there might be deprivation issues and all sorts of things we hadn’t foreseen. The nanites were originally developed to slow brain damage, and the tuning that Merlin gave them, I’m not sure what his parameters were. We hadn’t tested them.”

“Bloody typical,” Harry said, his tone a little sour, though it was more at the situation and it lacked any teeth in the complaint. “He…he always does this. Testing things on himself because he won’t put someone else through what he wouldn’t go through himself—“

His voice got thicker as he spoke, and he swallowed hard. He closed his eye, tilting his head to the side to compose himself in front of Whiskey. She rubbed his forearm gently, giving him a little pat. After a moment, he glanced up at her.

There was no pity there, and there never had been. Even when he himself couldn’t remember, she had been a magnificent help, empathetic and understanding despite everyone else’s claims that he would never amount to anything again, no matter who he had been before.

“You have my thanks, Whiskey,” he said quietly. “You have, time and again, gone beyond the call of duty for me and my own. Kingsman owes you a debt of gratitude I fear we shan’t be able to repay any time soon.”

“Agent Galahad,” she said softly. “Do you know, he worked so hard to help you remember because he wanted your return just as badly?”

Harry’s gaze met hers, and she nodded. She pulled over the other chair in the infirmary so that she could sit.

“Do you remember the day before you were scheduled to leave Statesman, before you regained your memories as Agent Galahad?” she asked.

He nodded, his mind going once again to Merlin’s field jacket, folded with care amongst his things.

“I knew then that…you and Merlin were something special to each other,” she said lightly. When his gaze hardened, she shook her head. “I’m not judging. In fact, I’m a little jealous that you two have such a strong bond. From what Merlin was telling me, you two have worked together, side by side, for more than thirty years.”

“What gave it away?” Harry wondered aloud, curious now. His own interactions with Merlin (and to a lesser extent, Eggsy) had been painful and awkward for the both of them. He had no idea what she’d seen.

“Right after we tried to jog your memory with the water chamber.” Whiskey flushed and looked away, embarrassed by her own hand in that. Harry waited for her to continue. While he didn’t necessarily approve of their methods, he did know the feeling of desperation they must have been feeling – he was feeling much the same, faced with a Merlin who might have lost his memories. Desperation drove people to do many things.

Whiskey continued. “It was when you were both walking away, he’d chased after you down the hallway when you’d left. He was the one who’d stopped the test. He was talking to you so gently, the way he always talked to you. And as he was guiding you down the hallway, he went to put his hand on the small of your back.”

She cleared her throat, but Harry approved of her observation skills. Whiskey was a sharp woman, and she would do her title proud, he had no doubt.

“It occurred to me, then, that Merlin wouldn’t be so desperate to get you back as a Kingsman agent. Agent, uh, Galahad is quite capable in his own right. While surely your friends missed you, there was a whole stable of Statesman agents to choose from that would have served your purposes as well, barring my predecessor – though we didn’t know that at the time. But when he started to place his hand on the small of your back, it clicked. It was too intimate for a working friendship, and then…he stopped.”

Ah.

That hit like a punch to the chest, one that the bespoke couldn’t dull. He looked down, studying his hands for a long moment before he spoke.

“Merlin…” Harry began, then took a deep breath. “Merlin is a man who will put the mission before anything else. His own comfort, things he wants…none of that has any bearing on what needs to be done. It is not his priority. I believe, that, in his mind, he wanted me to be comfortable. Pushing me to restore my memory would only hurt me, and might damage more than it saved. Even at the cost of his own emotional, mental, and physical health, Merlin has always looked out for me.”

“I suspect the same can be said for you, Harry,” she said. This also seemed to jog her memory, and she looked him over with a critical eye that he knew all too well. He’d seen that calculating expression more than once on the man now asleep in the bed beside him. “When was the last time you had a proper sleep?”

“I’ll sleep better when Merlin has woken,” Harry admitted. “But the last time I slept more than four hours at a stretch was just after we returned from Cambodia.”

“Exhaustion,” she said, as though confirming her own suspicions. “Would it help if I got you a bed in here?”

Touched by the gesture, Harry blinked up at her in surprise. She smiled at him, pressing a panel in the wall and stepping back.

Harry heard the whirr of machinery and the wall on the opposite side of the bed separated, opening to reveal a compartment.

There, on the other side of Merlin’s bed, there was a smaller, though no less comfortable bed. It rose to the same level as Merlin’s bed, and settled beside it with a quiet pneumatic hiss. The railing on that side of Merlin’s bed slid down, allowing Harry to be closer, though he realized that he wouldn’t want to sleep there in the join between their beds. It did, however, allow Harry to reach out and touch.

“Some of us prefer to keep our own company,” she said softly, plumping the pillow and making sure Harry wouldn’t bump anything vital in his sleep. “For the rest of us, I built these beds. Everyone needs someone. You can be the most effective agent in the world and it doesn’t mean a damn thing if you don’t have something to fight for. You need something to come home to, someone to ground you. Something that makes you human.”

“Arthur would have loathed you,” Harry chuckled. He rose, taking her hands and squeezing them. “I, however, think you will make an exemplary Statesman, and I hope to see more of your ideals spread through the organization.”

 Whiskey went pink at his praise, smiling as she shook her head. “Ever the flatterer, Harry. I’ll set the privacy locks and you can get some sleep. I’ll buzz in the morning to see if you’re ready for me to check on him again.”

“That sounds lovely,” he said. She reached into her coat pocket and produced a softer eyepatch, designed to protect the ruins of his left eye socket as he slept. He took it, thanking her with an incline of his head, and moved toward the small bed. “Good night, Whiskey.”

“Good night, Agent Galahad,” she murmured, allowing the doors to slide shut behind her. As she set the privacy locks, the lights in the room dimmed to a much duller level, and he could already feel the need to sleep buzzing against his senses, making him feel dulled and slow. He undressed carefully, down to braces, shirt and trousers, folding each of his layers carefully and laying them over the chair where he’d sat.

That done, he climbed into bed, slipping on the eyepatch and setting his spectacles where he could reach them in a hurry. He rolled to his side, his hand moving for Merlin’s over the blankets even as his eye began to drift closed. The last sight he had was Merlin’s profile, slumbering beside him and illuminated in the low pale light of the infirmary.

Harry found there was nowhere that he would rather be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God damn that hurt to write. That said, I hope that you're all enjoying. Bearfeathers and I are certainly enjoying ourselves. If you like, you can prompt me at lywinis.tumblr.com/ask
> 
> Spot the reference and get about an hour of the both of us screaming about ANOTHER spy movie. Heh.


	6. The War of the Roses (Concurrent during TGC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 
>       
>     
>     
>         _Now Leroy he a gambler
>     And he like his fancy clothes
>     And he like to wave his diamond rings
>     In front of everybody's nose
>     He got a custom Continental
>     He got an Eldorado too
>     He got a thirty two gun in his pocket for fun
>     He got a razor in his shoe
>     
>     And it's bad, bad Leroy Brown
>     The baddest man in the whole damned town
>     Badder than old King Kong
>     And meaner than a junkyard dog_
>     

Roxy rubbed at her eyes as she fed Eggsy tidbit after tidbit to help him through his dinner with Tilde’s parents. It was nice, really, seeing him work so hard to impress them. Eggsy could be endearing, as much as he drove her to distraction at times.

“…and the symbol is actually the Jarl’s initials combined,” she said. Eggsy typed her a thank you using the eyeglass keyboard, and his following ‘ur the best’ made her smile.

“The best Kingsman or the best friend?” she asked.

‘both ;)’ came Eggsy’s reply, and she chuckled. He was looking good in front of Tilde’s parents, and that meant that he would be over the moon during the meeting tomorrow.

She enjoyed Tilde’s company. She found the woman sweet, and she really did care for Eggsy. That was enough for Roxy, who’d sort of adopted Eggsy. Somehow he’d become her brother, probably during the parachute stunt. (While she understood, she hadn’t quite forgiven Merlin for the almost gleeful cruelty during her trials. He really was a demon at times, pushing them beyond what they thought were the limits of their minds and bodies. He’d settled considerably after her confirmation, however, and so she’d let it go.)

She leaned back against her headboard, curled up in the guest suite of the little flat on the Thames. The flat itself belonged to one James Spencer, her predecessor. It had been his home for years, but he and Martin still kept separate residences. For now, however, while James recovered from his wounds acquired during V-Day, it had become their unofficial base of operations.

It took a lot to kill a Kingsman, and Professor Arnold’s account was shaky at best, beaten out of him by Harry as he was trying to get more information on Valentine. It bordered on the hysterical. James had not been bisected, though it had been a close thing. He had been grievously wounded and left to die on the floor of that chalet, until Gazelle had discovered the thread of a heartbeat in his neck.

They’d dragged him to the cells in Valentine’s lair, bandaging his wounds and keeping him just on the off edge of recovery – in order to bleed him for information. Whilst Eggsy and Merlin were freeing people trapped in the cells after Valentine’s death, they’d stumbled across James – bearded, wild-eyed, but alive. They’d returned their former Lancelot to Kingsman post-haste, though his injuries kept him from resuming an active seat at the table as of yet.

Roxy was just happy to have James back. He was her uncle by blood, her mother his twin sister. Her mother had been devastated to learn of James’s passing, and she still grieved; Kingsman had told her that James had died of an aneurysm, and the body that they allowed the family to bury was a facsimile developed for Kingsman agents who died in the line of duty. James’s miraculous return was not something Roxy could share, and yet another secret she kept from her mother.

‘James’ had hardly been cold in the ground before Roxy was approached by Martin. He’d requested that she succeed James as the new Lancelot; after learning what her uncle really did for a living, she accepted. She became sponsored into Kingsman by the Knight Percival.

Martin Gainsborough (code name: Percival) was more than just her mentor, however. He was her honorary uncle, in a long term relationship with James. For privacy’s sake, they’d never disclosed the ties to Kingsman, nor had they bothered to inform Arthur. Relationships were not only frowned upon, they were actively forbidden. A Kingsman was discouraged from creating personal ties, from forming relationships that could get them killed in the line of duty.

Chester King, the previous Arthur, had made it clear what he thought of James and Martin, and surely the same could be said of Merlin and Harry. The latter she’d found out about quite by accident, walking in on her uncles talking. She hadn’t known either of the men before, but it made sense to her, growing up in James and Martin’s radius, that there would be others like them – and that they would be friends with her uncles. However, she was mannered enough to keep her thoughts private as she met Merlin for the first time, and even when meeting Harry the night of her confirmation as one of the last two candidates for the Lancelot title.

The current Arthur toed the old Arthur’s line, with the unspoken rule that he wouldn’t say anything if he didn’t see anything. In other words, the status quo remained much the same.

Merlin, as well as James and Martin themselves, would have called it a load of shit, to put it in Eggsy terms. There was no way to live without forming ties, being a singularly lonely person didn’t actually sharpen one’s skills. Now, she looked on her strange little family with a sort of fondness. There was the hole of Harry missing (though surely Merlin and Eggsy felt that loss more keenly than anyone), but they were family nonetheless.

Vaguely, she could hear James laughing at something downstairs. Her smile grew a little softer, more fond. She adored her uncles, a constant source of support in her life. Roxy was certainly glad that she’d gotten them both back. They were likely sitting in front of the fire, drinking and talking, Martin’s feet in James’s lap as he conducted his meeting with the Kingsman roundtable.

A shrill beeping caught her attention, and her gaze snapped to her monitor, just as she heard Eggsy shout ‘Put it down!’

Her flat appeared on her laptop’s defenses matrix, the 3D model whirling to life as a red dot appeared in the air above her little home. It was too fast for her to do anything about it, and she watched in horror as her security systems blotted out, a bright red ‘OFFLINE’ appearing on her screen.

She gave a sharp inhale, glad that she and Martin had decided to have the night in with James instead of retiring to their own flats. Exploding in a fireball was not in the cards for her evening, not if she could help it.

Her feed went dark, routed through her flat. Martin’s feed went dark as well, and she rolled off her bed, running barefoot down the hallway. One by one, her links to Kingsman went dark, Merlin’s mostly silent feed flickering out last. He’d been feeding her comments about Eggsy’s table manners for the last hour or so, but now—

If they’d gotten Merlin’s feed, a missile must have hit Central, worming its way deep into the ground and into the cement bunker below the estate. For a missile that powerful, their enemies must have some serious need to see them dead. Her heart hammered in her chest, her fingers shaking.

Perdita was hot on her heels, the poodle sensing that something was afoot. She rounded the corner, only to meet James and Martin coming up the stairs. By their pale expressions, they’d seen it too.

The lights flickered, the power grid feeling the brunt of so many Kingsman sites being taken off so fast. While the shop had its own power plant, many of the Knights’ residences relied on local power with a small generator to power their extracurricular additions to their homes. The rumble of the ground set off several car alarms, their shrieking able to be heard in the night.

“Did you—“ she asked, feeling slow and numb. No one had ever dared to attack Kingsman outright like this. An agent had been kidnapped before, but as James had shown, Knights were resilient to the last. This was a whole other animal, something she was entirely unprepared for, and her fingers shook as James groped for her hand in the dimness of the hallway.

“We did,” Martin’s voice was calm, though his expression belied the stress that they were under. “We’re going dark.”

Off grid. There was nothing more dangerous to a Kingsman, being left on their own with no information or support pouring from Central into their eyes and ears. The organization had been dealt a crippling blow, both in terms of manpower as well as information. Roxy’s heads-up display flickered on as she touched her fingers to the frames of her glasses, trying one last time to reach Merlin.

Her spectacles displayed nothing but a bright green ‘OFFLINE’.

Who was left? Eggsy had been at Tilde’s palace, so perhaps he was safe. Merlin had been in Central when she’d left for the day, but that was no guarantee that their wizard hadn’t survived. She was pretty sure Merlin kept moving some days on a diet of pure caffeine and stubbornness. The other knights’ feeds in the meeting had winked out almost immediately, along with her own. Arthur had been at the shop – one of the central routing hubs for most of Kingsman’s feed overlays.

It was impossible to know the extent of the damage until they were clear and out of immediate danger. Martin was right, of course. Going dark was the optimal solution until they could determine who lived. The fact that they had survived on the luck of all being out of their proper homes and in James’s (who was off Kingsman rolls until he could be reinstated as a Knight – Morgana had ordered him on forced leave) was not lost on them. Luck had more to do with being a spy than most realized.

Roxy forced herself to breathe.

James squeezed her hand. His smile was strained, but it was there. “Come on then, Lancelot, show me what you’re made of.”

That put steel in her spine, and she linked her pinkie with her uncle’s, a childhood action. “My bag is in the car. Ready when you are, Lancelot.”

James’s smile lost the strain, and he mimicked her, linking their pinkies before he shook on it. “Right. Ours are in the closet. I’ll get them. Percival, the armory.”

“Yes, darling,” Martin murmured, turning to move down the stairs again.

Opposite the sitting room was the library, and it was where James kept both his best scotch and his backup weapons. Roxy was already behind him, and Martin handed her a spare Tokarev. She slid it into her coat, settling it on her side. The familiar weight of a firearm soothed her further.

“Shoes,” Martin said, flicking his fingers at her.

She glanced down, and caught sight of her own red-painted toes clutching at the Persian rug. Swearing under her breath, she moved to run upstairs. She needed her laptop and its encrypted hard drive as well. She passed James with two bags slung over his shoulders, a garment bag in his hand.

“Shoes,” he said, nodding at her.

Somehow, the echoed reminder from the both of them was even more comforting than the gun in her blazer. She nodded at him in return and headed to the guest room. She stepped into her flats, wiggling them onto her feet as she scooped up her laptop and shoved it in her bag along with Perdita’s leash. Clipping the leash to the poodle’s collar, she met her uncles downstairs.

James had packed the car already and was affixing his leash to Clancy, his bulldog. Clancy and Perdita both whuffed impatiently, seeming eager to get out the door and into the car. Martin’s own dog, an eager Labrador named Madeline, was sitting beside his feet. Martin passed her a heavy bag, and she glanced inside, noting the high powered rifle and extra rounds.

“You’re the best long distance shot of all of us, I felt it appropriate,” he said. She nodded, shouldering the bag. “We’ve moved your bag to the Bentayga. No word from Merlin?”

“None,” she said. She’d tried intermittently, but there had been no answer from Central.

“Then we are to assume every agent we meet are compromised, and we are to avoid old haunts. The tailors are to be considered ground zero, and to go back there would be extremely foolish,” Martin said. “I’ll drive, we’ll stay under the speed limit, and we won’t draw any attention to ourselves unnecessarily. There are several spots where we can re-equip and rearm, as well as find transport out of London.”

“Bora-Bora?” James asked, a hopeful note in his voice.

“We may have to,” Martin agreed. “At least until we can hail someone. We must assume that our accounts are being frozen and watched, luckily I have several dummy accounts under assumed names.”

“As do I,” Roxy murmured. They nodded to each other, leading the dogs out to the car.

“If nothing else we can fall back on the Spencer accounts,” James said as they loaded up the dogs. “Less suspicious.”

“True,” Martin agreed. “For now, there are Kingsman jets stored in the hangars at Heathrow, though I’m only rated to fly up to a Learjet 75.”

“That will do just nicely,” James declared. “For now, let’s concentrate on getting there with our skins intact, shall we?”

 Martin made a noncommittal noise, pulling from the driveway and pulling cautiously into the crowded street.

* * *

Percival hated being right. Not two minutes after their car left James’s flat, there were two sets of headlights following behind. It didn’t take a genius to spot a tail most of the time, but Martin had particular experience with it, counter intelligence one of his specialties during training. These two were being less obvious about it than most, and he made a soft noise that had his partner’s head tilted toward his immediately.

“Lancelot,” he said, voice quiet. “We have company.”

He could see Roxy turn her head in the rearview, and she caught sight of the tail as well. She said something rather unladylike, but she began assembling the rifle in the back seat, unzipping the bag and keeping herself below observation in the back seat.

The dogs were marvelously well behaved, Martin issuing a soft order that had them bellying down in the floorboards in the back. Clancy panted softly between James’s feet in the front seat, and James withdrew the Walther PPK that he kept concealed in the glove compartment.

“Well, we never chose the easy option before,” James said. “Can we lose them?”

“In this traffic, after a missile struck several parts of the city in residential areas?” Martin made a show of considering. “I might be able to wing it.”

He turned them left down an alleyway, heading along the riverbank. The headlights juked through traffic to follow.

“What are they driving, Lancelot?” he asked.

“Two vehicles, look to be the new Vignales,” she said, loading the sniper rifle with a soft ‘clack’. “Shall I disable them?”

“Hold your fire unless you have a clean shot at a tire that will block the alleyway,” Martin said. “James. I need a calculated route to Heathrow.”

“I’m no Merlin, but I’ll give it my level best,” James said, flipping the dash and tapping out a panel. While the missiles may have destroyed Central, Kingsman satellites were still circling the globe, and James tapped into one as Martin drove. While it was a risky move, once they were in the air they would have a little more breathing room and options.

Anything with a GPS could be tracked, including the car they were in now. It had only been a matter of time until they’d been found, but at least they had each other to rely on while they made a run for it.

“They’re speeding up.” Roxy warned. Martin depressed the accelerator, and the Bentley shot into traffic, earning them a chorus of angry honks as Percival took the vehicle up and over the roundabout, leaping over a knot of terrified drivers and landing neatly in an alleyway on the other side. The dogs whined, but otherwise held their positions as Martin rounded a corner.

“Left at the next interchange,” James said, and Martin took it, slowing as he made the turn. “Lancelot, on your right!”

Roxy had rolled down the windows to give her sightlines, and she fired out of the right hand window now, catching the SUV in its front left tire. The car spun, twirling across the street and coming to rest awkwardly astraddle both oncoming traffic lanes.

The report was deafening, but it was nothing compared to what Roxy said as the ringing in his ears cleared.

“It’s not going to be enough,” she warned. “They’re already gearing up to follow again.”

“We just need to get to the bridge,” Martin said. “There’s a cache of goods there as well as several emergency phones that have been hidden. I know where it is.”

“The driver,” James said. “Take him down, Lancelot.”

“Sir.” Martin heard her rolling down the rear windscreen, something that only Kingsman vehicles had been fitted with. She took aim as Martin flew through another interchange, arcing the car towards the bridge. He hit a swell in the road, and she cursed as her shot went wild, sparking off the bonnet instead of entering the front windscreen of the car chasing them.

Martin took a hard right, weaving through traffic as the SUV kept up the chase. Roxy chambered another round into the rifle, setting it against her shoulder and taking aim once again.

“Keep it as still as you can, Percival,” she said. Martin obliged, allowing the driver to catch up with him. The high powered rifle roared out another report, the flash of the muzzle hitting the corner of his eye from its reflection in the mirror. Red bloomed in the middle of the driver’s forehead, and he slumped over the wheel, the car losing control at last. It spun out, landing on its side and skidding as sparks flew from the pavement around its body.

“Brilliant shot, Lancelot,” James said, the pride leaking into his voice as he fiddled with the map again. Martin scanned the area ahead of them for the second vehicle, and spotted it following parallel to them.

“Don’t go congratulating just yet,” Martin said. “One more.”

“Five more,” Roxy corrected. Martin’s gaze flashed to the rearview. They were being pursued by motorcycles.

“Damn,” Martin said. “Hang on.”

He made a hard right, veering off onto a side street and taking them away from the fastest route to the bridge. He would get them back there, but they needed to lose their pursuit first. The SUV seemed intent on letting the motorbikes catch up before it made a move, and it gave Martin a chance to strike first. He reached over, depressing a switch on the dash.

A miniature missile shot from beneath the rear wheel well, striking the SUV in the engine block. Flames erupted from beneath the car; the driver and all three passengers dove from the vehicle as it veered into the street divider and burst into flames.

“Was saving that,” Martin grumbled. “We don’t have the newest ones installed on this vehicle yet, Merlin hadn’t gotten to it.”

The buzz of motorbikes approaching made him snap the wheel to the left, crowding one away from the passenger side door. The rider had been lining up a shot on James, but Martin made him lose his balance and drop his weapon as he struggled to control the vehicle. James rolled down his window and fired several warning shots from his Walther, making them weave as they avoided him.

“Don’t worry about it, darling, I’m sure Merlin has even more toys to install.” James’s voice was cheerful and they didn’t voice what they were all thinking. “Take another left here, let’s lose them along the waterfront.”

Martin obeyed, sliding around a corner and watching as three of the bikes shot past. He took the Bentley at a good clip down the road, finally pulling off behind a pub with a parking lot. The pub was undergoing renovations, and the parking lot was mostly empty, but blocked from a view of the street by a high wooden fence. Martin killed the engine, and James killed the dashboard’s tracker, knowing that it would be more difficult for them to be found.

Roxy reloaded her rifle, wearing a grim expression. “The rider, the one in red. They seemed to be the leader. I didn’t see them as we turned the corner.”

“Fell back to regroup?” James ventured, though the tone of his voice seemed to indicate he didn’t believe it.

“Henchmen are expendable,” Martin said, his eyes on the street. They all froze as they could hear the sound of motorbikes buzzing down the road. They roared past the Bentley’s hiding spot, and Martin didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until the sound of their engines faded away in the distance. “Likely got called away to deal with another one of us.”

“Hope it was Bors, that wanker,” James mumbled. Martin shook his head, listening intently. Even James subsided then. “We should get moving. Sitting still is just as bad as causing a scene.”

“Very true,” Martin said. He restarted the engine and they pulled back out onto the street, the windows rolled up and moving at a more sedate pace. James toggled the license plate change and the plates rotated out. With a new license plate, it would be enough of a deterrent to keep them from looking too closely.

It might keep their pursuers busy for a while, at least long enough for them to get the emergency transmitters and their cache.

The trip to the Tower Bridge was tense, but there was no more pursuit. Police screamed around them, sirens wailing, and Martin kept the car at a sedate pace. Everyone was on edge, the dogs all washing their noses and yawning as Martin parked the car. They had just enough time to get their last tickets of the evening, and they hurried up to the walkway atop the bridge.

It was a magnificent piece of engineering, this addition by the tourism board. It allowed one to walk above the traffic, see London stretched out on either side of the Thames, and look down over London life below them.

It made the city money, without a doubt but—

Tourists, everywhere they looked. It was an excellent place to get lost, if one weren’t dressed as impeccably as Kingsman agents were. They knew they stuck out like a sore thumb, but Roxy, bless her, was ready. She chattered to her uncles like a brainless ninny, snapping pictures with her phone and begging them to be in her snap stories. Martin played the role of indulgent uncle, leaning on his cane and looking grim for the photographs.

Martin couldn’t feel his shoulders relax, not yet. There was still the sensation of eyes on him, and it wasn’t the bored, glassy-eyed stare of the security guard placed up here to keep enterprising people from shooting parkour videos and falling to their deaths.

It was harder looking nonchalant and waiting until the very last few of the tour groups were beginning to clear out. James pulled the security guard off to the side, slipped him fifty quid and explained that he didn’t want an audience when he proposed to his boyfriend there, you see, so could you clear off and give them maybe twenty extra minutes before you closed up?

Martin gave James a sharp glance as he returned, the other man clearly not expecting his partner to hear that little exchange. Martin’s ears were sharper than most, however, especially with the ear protection afforded to agents when firearms were involved – small, nearly invisible inserts that sat in the ear canal and protected from noises over a certain decibel level. His lips were pursed when James returned, but it gave them the necessary amount of time required as the guard shuffled down the elevator, saying he would lock up when James was finished.

That left them alone, just the three of them.

Roxy was through the camera’s security in two minutes, setting a repeating feed up of them milling around the bridge, and then Martin made for the wall. While the walkway was new, the Tower Bridge was very old and Kingsman had their hands in everything they could reach.

He pressed his signet ring into a little alcove of rock beside the doors and a hollow space slid open. Inside were three emergency beacons, tuned to encrypted Kingsman channels, designed to be worn about the wrist and telegraph an agent’s location. There was also a small cache of arms and ammunition, which Martin distributed. Two extra Tokarevs and enough ammunition to fire them to empty twice. Two more lighters, which James pocketed, and a cache of emergency cash. They split the funds between them, Roxy adding to an already impressive panic stash strapped to the inside of her forearm.

The click of footsteps across the glass of the bridge made their heads snap up from their tight huddle around the cache. A woman stood at the other end of the bridge, clad in red leather. She was tall, almost as tall as James and Martin, wearing sensible motorcycle boots and clutching a helmet in one hand. Her hair was so blonde it was almost white, her near translucent skin and intense, staring eyes a frozen blue in her face.

She wore a sword strapped between her shoulder blades. The tiny hairs on the back of Martin’s neck stood straight up as he observed her stop, taking in each of them in turn.

“So, there you are,” she said. Her voice was cultured, but with a lilt that Martin couldn’t recognize until he realized she was Irish and trying to hide it with a posh accent. “I’ve been looking all over the city for you.”

“I beg your pardon,” James said. “Do I owe you money?”

“Where is Harry Hart?” she asked.

The three of them froze, staring at her in disbelief. Harry had been dead these many months, nearly eleven by Martin’s count. They’d drunk to him, bitterly and with more than their share of grief. It was hard enough seeing Merlin wandering about Central like a ghost, but for this woman – this stranger – to come knocking and spitting a dead man’s name was enough to make Percival’s teeth grind.

“There is no one by that name here,” he said, ushering Roxy behind him. She didn’t argue, taking a step behind Martin. Martin took a step forward, putting himself between the stranger and James as well. “What do you want?”

“I want Galahad,” she said. Her voice came out in a sneer on the name, as though saying it was equivalent to saying a slur. “Where is Harry Hart?”

“He is not here,” Martin said again. He could feel James reaching for his pistol, shuffling for the Tokarev, but he turned his body toward James, holding out a placating hand. James stopped, and looked at him. Martin didn’t remove his eyes from the interloper, but he was grateful that James was listening to him.

Martin extended his pinkie. James, not used to seeing Martin play the childhood games he shared with Roxy often, took it with an expression of confusion that Martin could only see from the corner of his eye.

“Later, I expect a proper proposal,” he murmured. James’s eyes went wide as they hooked pinkies together. In order to make it binding, by James’s standards, Martin met his knuckles in a sort of fist-bump, bringing his and James’s thumb flush together at the pads. “And I’m going to seal it with a kiss to make sure I get it. Later. Once this is done.”

He stepped away, calling over his shoulder.

“Lancelot, take your uncle downstairs and prepare the car. She’s alone, otherwise she’d have thrown henchmen at us first.” He dropped all pretense that he needed his cane to walk, straightening and clicked the button on the handle to unsheathe its hidden blade. The handle unfolded, wrapping about his fist in a guard. He cast the cane portion aside, withdrawing a long, gleaming cavalry saber.

While many sword canes favored a rapier-style blade, Martin preferred a heavier weapon and it showed as he gave the blade an experimental swing. Normally he would have used the cane only in an emergency, but with Roxy and James at his back, he couldn’t risk missing a shot with them right behind him and the woman tagging Roxy with a stray shot – or worse, tagging James.

James was still recovering from his wounds at Valentine’s hands. While his body was nearly healed, it had taken months for bones to mend and stitches to come out and Martin quite liked James’s head where it was on his shoulders. Roxy was a strong and fierce fighter, but Martin had the edge on this woman with height and with his reach. Roxy might prevail in stamina, but there was nothing to judge that assessment by other than her performance in field tests.

Tactically, Percival was the only choice to finish her so that they might make their escape.

He made his choice, and perhaps it was the right one, as the woman took in his stance and the shining blade in his hand. Slowly, her face morphed into a smile. It would have been angelic, if he couldn’t see how her blue eyes fair to blazed in her face, and the eagerness with which she unsheathed the sword on her back.

A claymore, now that Martin could see it clearly. He’d had stranger matchups, though the assessment on reach had been a true one. He settled on the balls of his feet as he waited for her to make the first move. She didn’t chase after James and Roxy, though her eyes tracked them as they made their way towards the elevator.

“Not Galahad,” she said, tilting her head and giving him a strange smile. She held her sword in one hand with ease, as though the blade was light as a feather. It gleamed oddly in the running lights on the walkway, appearing as red as a forged ingot, a glowing, smoldering coal. “But a Kingsman. You’ll do.”

“Sir Percival,” he said, his tone tart as he saluted her with his blade.

“War,” was all she replied.

There was a breath, a heartbeat, where they regarded each other, and then each exploded into motion. Her helmet came sailing at him and he sidestepped, barely managing to get his saber up in time to block the overhanded swing she’d baited him into.

She was ungodly strong, Martin realized, as his whole arm went numb from just blocking that one swing. She hefted the sword like it was a blade of grass, large swipes and thrusts forcing Martin onto the defensive. She backed him around the bridge, Martin’s flexibility a godsend as he fought desperately to keep her from scoring a hit.

He ducked another powerful swing, the woman putting both arms into it. The blade shrieked along the shatterproof plexiglass that covered the wall of the walkway. It separated from its moorings, the polymer used to protect patrons melting away under the strike. Martin, horrified, realized that the sword had been dripping something. It pattered on the plexiglass on the floor, pitting it and eating it through.

A cold breeze swept in of the Thames and he shuddered as it cut through was wasn’t covered by his clothing.

The bespoke was a modern marvel, but there wasn’t anything he could do if she separated his head from his shoulders. Nor would he survive if she struck him with that. Even if the slash was resisted, she could very well break bone. This was quickly becoming a war of attrition and it was one that Martin was losing. He could feel the fatigue in his arms, his breath screaming in his chest as she toyed with him.

“Where is Harry Hart?” she called, flicking the blade outward. More of the liquid hissed off the blade, but it seemed to be spent. It still pocked the walkway, but she was shaking the blade as if to clear it. He didn’t want to know what else she had in store; this might be his only chance to strike and strike true.

“Harry Hart isn’t here!” he spat, leaping forward with a savage slash that caught her across the face. She’d had the sword out, confident that she was going to be the victor, that this was going to be the foregone conclusion. He’d caught her off guard, and he could see the ruins of her eye as he moved to finish her.

She clouted him across the head with the pommel of her sword, the blow making him see stars. This woman was so strong, it was monstrous. Percival staggered back, and she pushed him toward the opening in the bridge, wild swipes that made him stumble. She drew back, and before he could dart out of the way, he felt the edge of the bridge beneath his heels and he flailed for balance.

“Where is Harry Hart?” she shouted again, driving him closer to the edge. Martin finally managed to get a grip on the side of the bridge, straightening just as the tip of the claymore pierced his shoulder. Fire coursed through him, and despite himself he screamed in pain.

“Harry Hart is **_dead_**!”

White hazed over his vision; he couldn’t move. She had him pinned to the wall like one of Harry’s macabre collections, pinned like a butterfly to a mounting board. She twisted the blade and he screamed again, though it was fainter. He could feel his muscles seizing up, and realized that the blade was leaking a milky-white fluid. It was different from the chemical that melted the wall, but no less deadly.

It was getting harder to breathe. Paralysis, he realized, as though he were far from his body. He could feel, as though through a poncho or other sort of protective cover, his shoulder running with his own blood, bleeding freely.

Someone should stop that, he thought idly to himself. His mind was becoming fuzzy.

“If you don’t know, then what good are you, Kingsman?” she snapped, leaning forward. “Perhaps the others know. Maybe the man. Though…no. He’s not young enough to break. Too old and set in his ways. The girl, perhaps. I bet she screams prettier than you do.”

Martin’s gaze clarified, snapping toward her face.

“No,” he mumbled, more of a grunt than an actual word.

“Don’t struggle, it’s not worth it,” the woman said. She looked amused, as though encouraging him to do it anyway.

Martin lifted his arm, the whole limb feeling like it was like moving through wet sand, and he reached up, grasping the blade. He sliced his hand open, but he didn’t care. He pushed himself forward, hand over hand, until he could reach the cross guard. It felt like ages, and vaguely, he knew it hurt like hell, but he didn’t care.

The blonde woman watched him in almost wonderment as he wrapped his bloody hands around the hilt and grinned at her. He could see flecks of blood on his lips and teeth, reflected in the glass around them.

“I’d rather you came with me,” he grunted. He pushed off with his legs, tumbling backward out of the hole in the bridge. He could hear someone screaming, but he could only hope it was his opponent as they tumbled into the metal struts that held the walkway up. He hit with the ringing of metal, bouncing, his body as limp as a rag doll.

The last thing he remembered was the dark water of the Thames rushing up to meet him like an old friend.

* * *

James Spencer was screaming.

He watched Martin and the strange woman plummet to the water below, his heart in his throat. He was already struggling out of his jacket, his wordless cry dying in his throat as Roxy wrapped her arms around him and pulled him away from the cold water of the Thames.

“Uncle!” Roxy said, striking him sharply across the face. “Uncle James, look at me.”

James, wild-eyed, focused on Roxy’s face. She was calm, far too calm, not when Martin—

“I will fetch him but I need you to watch my back whilst I do,” she said, her voice low and desperate. “Can you do that for me? I’m the stronger swimmer and I’m the only one who’s had training dealing with the kind of undertow. You’re still recovering. I’ll get him. I’ve **_got_** him. Watch the bank, I’ll be back.”

He nodded, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat.

Useless, bloody useless, his mind chattered at him. They’d been covering for him since the missiles hit, trying to protect him.

James Spencer was a damned liability. He’d gotten Martin—

Martin was—

James scrubbed the heel of one of his palms against his eye, giving a broken noise.

_James loved being little spoon, but that night, he was the big spoon, just holding Martin as they're drifting off. They’d had dinner with James’s sister and her husband had made the rare appearance. He kept asking James when he would settle down and have children of his own, offering to find him a real wife amongst the bluebloods of their mutual acquaintance._

_Martin had been in a mood since they’d gotten home. Quiet and introspective, even as they’d prepared to go to bed._

_"Martin?"_

_"Mm." Martin's already half-asleep, but the way James said his name roused him a little, leaning back into his partner's chest._

_"You should know that I wouldn't change any of it. Joining Kingsman, meeting you. Working so **bloody** hard to get you to notice me. Children are nice, but I would much rather have the life I'm building here, with you."_

_"Oh." He could feel Martin’s heart hammering under the broad swathe of his palm. James must have a sixth sense for when Martin is tearing up, because he just placed the smallest, sweetest kiss against the back of his neck, squeezing his partner gently._

_"Never doubt that at any given time, I will choose you, darling. I've chosen you over and over again, and I'm not inclined to stop choosing you just because of who you are. That's what I love the most about you."_

_"James..."_

_"Yes, darling?"_

_"Go to sleep."_

_"Yes, darling." James didn't miss how Martin rolled over and pressed his face into the curve of his neck, however. He just herded him closer and drifted off with Martin in his arms._

“Hey, buddy. I’m talking to you.” Fingers snapped in front of his face and he startled, bringing up his Walther into the face of the woman in riding leathers before him. She put up her palms, a placating gesture. “Whoa there, hoss, cool it with that. Put it down. I just gotta question for you.”

“What…what is it, I’m—“

“You know where I can get a pair of Oxfords resoled at this hour?”

The code phrase turned his common sense back on. James straightened, and took a long, hard look at the woman before him. She’d come across him specifically, approached him. Who was she?

“I do,” he said softly. “But only if you need your clothing bespoke.”

She smiled. James looked her over. A handsome woman, she was dark skinned, her hair bound in an elegant twist behind her head. Her riding leathers were a deep blue, and the matching helmet sat on a sleek motorcycle. Intelligent brown eyes cased him in the same way.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“A cousin,” she said, holding out her hand. He took it, shaking her hand. “Heard that things were lighting up for the Kingsman, so my boss is sending aid. We’re sister organizations.”

“Who do you work for, then?”

“The Sons of Liberty. My question to you, though, is do you trust me to get you out of London, right now, tonight?”

“Not just me,” James answered smartly. Suddenly, he remembered. “My god, Lancelot.”

He broke and ran for the shore, searching for Roxy in the dark water. The woman followed him, pulling on a pair of sunglasses.

“That who you’re looking for?” she pointed. James peered, following her finger. Roxy bobbed in the water, Martin’s head against her shoulder as she swam in an awkward back stroke, dragging him to the bank. James waded in, squishing through the mud to help them both out.

To his surprise, the woman helped, hauling Martin bodily out of the water and laying him flat. Martin was cold to the touch, his lips pale and his chest not moving.

“We need to get him help,” Roxy said. Her sharp blue eyes landed on the woman beside them. “Who’s this?”

“A friend, so it seems,” James replied. “She’s come to get her Oxfords resoled.”

“Sons of Liberty.” She held out her hand and Roxy took it, shaking it with a bemused expression. “Name’s Revere. You folks look like you could do with some New World hospitality.”

She pulled several pads from her jacket, peeling Percival’s bespoke off and applying them to the wounds. She clicked two vials of liquid into them, and they began to swell, the colors swirling as the pads inflated. She placed another pad across his mouth and nose, and the liquid inside it began to glow green.

James released a sigh as Martin’s chest began to rise and fall. “He’s breathing.”

“Artificially,” Revere said, nodding. “It won’t last long, and we’re going to need to get him some serious medical attention. What happened?”

“I couldn’t even begin to describe it,” James hedged. “I’m afraid you have us at a disadvantage. You know who we are, but we have no idea who you are.”

“That would be Arthur’s fault,” Revere said, shaking her head. “Stubborn old bastard, and the new one isn’t much better. Damned sneering Imperials. It’s fine. I’ll explain on the way.”

She rose after covering Martin with her leather jacket and James’s discarded blazer. Roxy frowned, watching her. She tugged James to the car on the pretense of getting the dogs settled.

“I don’t trust her,” she murmured at James quietly.

“I don’t either, but what choice do we have?” he asked. “Martin needs the help.”

“We don’t tell them more than we need to,” she said. James nodded, and they broke away after a moment, Roxy pulling the car beside Revere’s motorcycle.

“Franklin,” she said, tapping her sunglasses. “I need an extraction by the Tower Bridge, send a medical team. Three with me. One in critical condition.”

She glanced at the dogs in the car. “Make that six. And you should warn Swan – the British are coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaah I'm super excited to get into this 'verse with you guys, you don't even know. The shit me and Bearfeathers have planned is wild, y'all.
> 
> I hope you guys are enjoying this as much as I'm enjoying making it. More soon!
> 
> Face Claim for our swordswoman: [Tilda Swinton](https://d2611yx6t84boa.cloudfront.net/app/uploads/2017/03/tilda-swinton-gentle-monster-eyewear-2017-collaboration-capsule-collection-surface-magazine-red-2000x1300.jpg)
> 
> Face Claim for Revere: [Thandie Newton](http://cdn3.thr.com/sites/default/files/imagecache/landscape_928x523/2017/06/03551afc5bcb736b2f0b263abc96b9f604c407a67106a2c66649301c55d01efe789a3f28bb0c9b6518949432db1b6ac9_-_h_2017.jpg)


	7. Rewriting History (Post TGC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: 
> 
> A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; 
> 
> A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
> 
> A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
> 
> A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
> 
> A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
> 
> A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
> 
> A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.
> 
> \-- Ecclesiastes 3:1-8
> 
> The cycle begins anew. This isn't the end. Nor is it even the end of the beginning.
> 
> (Now with an amazing parallel fic by Bearfeathers: [headcount](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12198105/chapters/28041867)! If you're not reading [As Heavy as a History Book Can Be](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12198105) you're missing out. )

Evening was just settling over the Statesman distillery as Harry crossed the grounds toward the tower that held the boardroom. The compound was lit by running lights at night, with the large spotlights reserved for the tower itself, revealing the Statesman logo writ large over the building. Harry could just make out the pinpricks of stars peeping out over the light pollution behind the building, scattering themselves over the blanket of bluish-purple that was spreading across the sky.

While not a superstitious man, at least to hear himself talk about it, Harry couldn’t help wishing on the first of the stars that caught his eye. He pulled open the door of the tower and entered, long stride taking him to the elevators and up, up, up to where the Statesman boardroom was located. His flight of fancy forgotten, he moved into the room, closing the door behind him.

Champ was standing with his back to Harry, his hands resting on the elaborate sideboard and staring out the window toward Louisville’s lights in the distance. As Harry rounded the table, he turned, a brow lifting. Harry inclined his head in greeting, and Champ extended a hand.

As they shook, for what felt like the first time, they stood on even ground. Harry prided himself on being able to read the mood of a room, and even with a spymaster like Champ, there were minute cues to be taken from the atmosphere.

“Good to see you, Galahad. Have a seat.” Harry obliged, settling at the table to the left of Champ’s usual seat. Champ moved to the sideboard and splashed some whiskey into a couple of tumblers, setting one before Harry at the table. When Champ settled into his seat, it was with the grunt of someone feeling their age in their knees.

Harry had no doubt that Champ was putting on at least a little bit of a show. Even Chester King wasn’t without his tricks.

“You wished to see me?” Harry asked, once Champ had taken a healthy sip of his whiskey. Harry took a sip of his own, the burn of it familiar and foreign all at once. Alcohol was alcohol, however, and while Harry preferred brandy to whiskey and martinis above both, he still sipped.

It was rude to refuse hospitality, and Champ’s had been singularly helpful. Statesman had saved the dregs of Kingsman from disaster, and were even generously helping them to rebuild their numbers by setting them up with a distillery. From what Harry understood now that he had been brought up to speed, there were the three of them left.

The staff had all been spared, with just the main buildings hit and destroyed, though London’s streets were still going through rebuilding efforts. They were ready and able to return to work, as far as Eggsy’s encrypted emails had said. Harry hadn’t gotten his clearance back; Merlin still had him listed as deceased in the rolls.

Harry took another sip of his whiskey as the thought occurred to him that Merlin would have done all that work himself, his long fingers moving over the keys as he marked Harry’s name from this world.

Would that he could have spared his wizard that sort of anguish. He would, however, spare him anymore, once he awoke. And he would awaken, he believed. Merlin had never let him down before. Kingsman had been hobbled, crippled by the loss of most of their experienced and well-trained Knights, left with a rookie with exactly four missions under his belt, a technical wizard that was sleeping off grievous injuries, and one old and broken senior Knight who had failed in his duty once before.

If his grimace was ungentlemanly, he would pass it off as the burn of the liquor entering his system.

Eggsy was in Sweden. Merlin was comatose, and Harry…was alive.

For some reason, the thought was comforting. He could make amends, he could fix things. How was the question he didn’t have the answer to yet, and Harry had always been a singular man of action. Merlin had been his right hand for so long that he was confident that when he awoke, things would make more sense and they would have a clear plan of action.

Champ’s eyes were studying him, searching his face, and Harry’s gaze met his, cool through the rush of his own thoughts.

“We had that talk earlier, about you rebuilding Kingsman,” he said, the twang of his voice still not something that Harry was used to. Harry nodded, remembering Whiskey’s induction to her new role. “Who do you have left?”

“The three of us,” Harry said, not surprised that Champ was focusing on logistics when his own mind had been doing much the same. “Agent Galahad, Merlin, and I are what remain of the Kingsman. Ancillary staff remain – they were safe in their homes when the missiles hit our main compound and the tailors. We had just sent them all home for the evening not an hour prior. They are, according to Galahad’s last communique, ready and willing to return to work should the call go out.”

“That reminds me,” Champ said, grunting his assent at Harry’s assessment. “This Galahad shit makes my head hurt. You are now head of Kingsman, to take the title and responsibilities thereof. Congratulations on your promotion, Arthur. May you do a better job than that old fart Chester King.”

Harry blinked at Champ for a long moment, then gathered himself together. “May I be candid?”

“If you weren’t I’d be surprised. Gentleman though you are, you never did have any trouble making your mind known, even when you couldn’t remember a damn thing.” Champ tilted his glass to him, drank, and then rose to stump over to the sideboard for a refill. “You’re wondering why I chose an amnesiac agent who got shot in the head when I could have just as easily stepped in as spymaster of both – or even placed one of my own in charge and been done with it.”

Champ was a puzzle, but the kind that Harry found to be a pleasant surprise. His smile this time was genuine, kicking up at the corners as Champ returned to his seat.

“That was the question, though perhaps not how I would have phrased it,” he conceded. “Your aid has been invaluable, be it financially, materially, or in terms of manpower. My question now is what do you hope to gain from it?”

“See, I knew I made the right choice,” Champ said, pointing a finger at Harry’s chest. “That’s what I’m talking about. You know what questions to ask and you don’t dance around all the bullshit trying to be smarter’n I am. I ‘ppreciate the hell out of that, you don’t even know.”

He took another swallow of his whiskey, picking up his remote and gesturing with it to the screen that sat between the windows. It lit up with numbers, spreadsheets of finances and liquid assets. Harry took a moment to absorb the information, calculating.

“One,” Champ began, indicating their sales charts. “We don’t have a foothold in the European market. Statesman liquor has always been more for the white collar/blue collar sort, and we don’t have the experience or the know-how to market elegance, not like you brits do. Our brand would suffer with our current market demographics if we were to change gears suddenly. It’s a sound financial decision to buy the distillery, rebrand it with your name, logo, and details, and become a partnership.”

Harry’s head tilted, brows knitting as he considered. There was a certain amount of sense to it. “Take a name that is household in London amongst the elite, rebuild the tailors and expand our market into liquor and other alcohols. It would give us the benefit of an already established brand to play off of and would leave none of the leg work in your hands.”

“I knew you were a smart’un.” Champ’s grin was sly as he turned back to Harry. “Now, since we’re using an established brand, it would kill us in fees to move an American in and establish them as the head of this company. Better for the tax rolls, publicity, and other shit like that if we had a face and name that was British, rather than American.”

“I see,” Harry said. He folded his hands in his lap, leaning back against his seat, his expression carefully neutral. “So I am what amounts to a figurehead.”

“Did I say that?” Champ’s expression didn’t change, and he waved a hand at the screen. “That shit is just a bonus. What I want from you is true cooperation. We could have saved y’all so much heartache when that Valentine shit went down. We had eyes and ears in the White House. All your Arthur had to do was ask, and we’d have given over. But Chester King—“

“—was a bastard,” Harry summed up neatly, taking a sip of his whiskey. Champ seemed surprised by Harry’s vehemence, sitting back. “Galahad explained what happened in the aftermath of V-Day, following my incapacitation. Arthur had been swayed to Valentine’s side already, with a chip implanted in his neck sometime during Galahad’s final twenty-four hour sponsorship for the Lancelot role. He had already turned on us.”

“Huh. Explains why he wasn’t taking my calls,” Champ said, sounding disgusted. “Arthur traditionally knows about the Statesman agency, introduced as he is inducted into the role. We generally work parallel, but keep our own cards. Chester King was introduced to me, and then we promptly never spoke again save in occasional face to face meetings. Now, I don’t know how y’all traditionally do things, but that dog don’t hunt out here.”

Harry suddenly understood. Champ was not looking for a leg up, or even an expansion of his business, though the distillery would benefit them both. He was looking for the exchange of information and technology, the promise of combined might in the face of whatever the future might hold. Backup. Partnership.

Harry was not in a position to say no, and if he were honest with himself, he wasn’t inclined to either. He’d been pushing for so many things to change, and had run up against the wall of Arthur’s stubbornness more than once. The sheer amount of manpower that could have been saved by the simple act of extending a hand across the ocean was almost galling. Chester King’s legacy was boiling down to selfishness and an almost slave-like adherence to traditional dogma.

Just because ‘we have always done it this way, since time immemorial’ was said didn’t make it true. A good spy adapted, or he died. It was plain fact.

“If I agree to this partnership,” Harry began, weighing his words very carefully. “I will have autonomous control over the training, housing, discipline and payroll of my organization?”

“You will,” Champ said.

“And all you are asking for in return is an exchange of information?” Harry pressed.

“Yes, and if you’re willing, a sort of exchange program.” Champ’s eyelids drooped, his smile becoming sly again. “You’ve met Agent Tequila.”

“Yes,” Harry said, tilting his head. “What of it?”

“I’d like him to go with you when you start to rebuild. Agent Whiskey, too. We got nothing on the books right now save for getting you gents up and running again, and if I’m honest, they could both use a little spit and polish.” Champ leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his belly as he regarded Harry. “Let ‘em help you pick your Knights. They can see how you do it on your own turf, and maybe learn a thing or two from an agent who’s been in the trenches and back.”

It was a show of solidarity unlike anything Harry had ever seen from someone in their position. As Arthur, Harry would wield considerable power. Champ knew and understood this, in a way that no one else could – being in a similar position himself.

“I can see it don’t sit in your craw too well, and I get it,” Champ said. “Consider it like this: you’re doing me a favor, training agents that I’ve done my best to explain the seriousness of what we do to – and who might get it on some level, but they ain’t ready to ride just yet. They go with you, they learn to be proper Statesmen, I consider your debt repaid, save for future favors on both our sides.”

“And if they don’t?” Harry asked, one hand coming up to rub his jaw.

“Then they weren’t fit to be Statesmen. But I don’t think that’s gonna happen, and I can tell from your expression that neither do you,” Champ said. He laughed as Harry’s eye snapped to his face. “Come on, now, boy, you think I couldn’t tell you were trying to read me the whole time? It’s what we do.”

“Fair,” Harry conceded. “Would you like this in writing?”

“No,” Champ said, leveling an even stare at Harry. “I think you’ll keep your word to me, as a gentleman.”

“You would be correct,” Harry said with a small smile. “You have my thanks, once again. Not only for housing me during my recuperation, but for your continued care of my agents.”

“Hell, I seen the way that Scotsman looked when he saw you were alive for the first time,” Champ said, the hard lines of his mouth softening a bit. “You care about each other, and it’s good to see. Might be as I can understand it. Just get yourselves recovered, stay as long as you like. We still have the paperwork to sign, but it can wait until our lawyers get the final details hammered out, and then I’ll pass off ownership of the land outside of Glasgow to you.”

Harry nodded, draining his glass of whiskey. “It has been an honor and a pleasure to work with you, sir.”

“Hell, same,” Champ said, extending his hand. Harry shook it, pleased to have come to an understanding.

The console before the head of Statesman chirped to life, and both their gazes snapped to it, though Champ’s expression softened into a grin almost immediately. “Well, damn, ain’t she got the devil’s own timing? I was gonna introduce you two anyway. Hang on.”

He swept his thumb and forefinger over the panel, bringing up a hologram in the middle of the table. It was a flat panel, angled so that both Harry and Champ could see their caller. She was an older woman, with the bearing and demeanor of a queen. Dark skin was accented with short, iron grey hair that framed her face in elegant curls. Her makeup was subtle, accenting sharp eyes that locked onto Harry almost immediately.

Harry was reminded of a bird of prey, the woman’s gaze shrewd and calculating as she looked him over. High, arched brows betrayed nothing as she weighed him. Harry wondered idly if he measured up. He resisted the urge to correct his already ramrod straight posture, but he inclined his head to her politely.

“Well, Philomena darlin’, what brings you to Kentucky at this time of night?” Champ said. Harry’s focus snapped to the spymaster, noting his tone. It was more than fond, something flirtatious there as Champ drawled the word ‘Kennnntucky’ more deliberately.

Ah. Harry filed that tidbit away for later.

“Just checking to see if you were still brushing your teeth with bourbon, Champagne,” she said. “Who’s your guest?”

“You got good timin’,” Champ said, unruffled by the use of his full title. Harry got the distinct impression that Philomena was the only one who would be able to get away with using it. “This here’s Harry Hart. He’s just been inducted as Arthur, formerly their Galahad.”

“A pleasure,” Harry said, realizing that this was a trust exercise. He’d already been given the woman’s first name, and she had the same set to her mouth that Champ did whilst sizing him up. Harry waited to see how this would unfold.

“It’s good to meet you,” she said, her tone softening. “Philomena Fox. You may call me Mina, or formally, Adams.”

“I’m not sure I quite understand,” Harry said, cautious.

“Chester,” Champ said, and Adams’s eyes cut to Champ briefly. There was a sort of exasperation about the both of them. “Adams here is part of another sister organization. She heads the Sons of Liberty.”

“I see,” Harry said. “There was nothing in our Doomsday protocols about your organization.”

“That’s because Chester removed them,” she said, a sense of sharp bitterness lacing the words. “I suppose I shouldn’t have called him a sneering Imperialist bastard, but…”

Champ barked a laugh.

“I suppose my timing is rather good,” she conceded, continuing. The tartness of her words was gone and she focused her gaze on Harry once again. “I am pleased to inform you that our agents have recovered three of your people, their dogs, and their equipment.”

“Which agents?” Harry asked, cautious.

“A good question,” Adams said. “We’ve remained quiet for now, because we knew that Kingsman had issues with moles during V-Day, and Statesman apparently had the same issue.”

Champ grunted, clearly not happy about their former Whiskey.

“We were unsure how deep the rabbit hole went, and so we bided our time. It was also expedient for us to do so, as one of your agents was grievously hurt. Send him in.”

She had Harry’s full attention now. She turned her head to someone off screen, gesturing. He leaned forward as the camera panned back, revealing a grinning James Spencer.

Harry’s heart stopped. “Good lord, James, is that you?”

The grin died on James’s face. He scooted as close as he could to the screen, his jaw dropping. “Harry?”

Roxy crowded in beside her uncle, eyes widening as she took in Harry, alive and well. “Galahad?”

Of all the agents in Kingsman, the fact that his friends, one of whom he’d already drunk to, were staring at him from a screen, in an undisclosed location, was making him feel a little lightheaded. They’d survived. Thank god. They’d made it.

“Arthur now,” Adams said. “They’ve sorted that.”

“Where’s Eggsy?” Roxy asked.

“He’s currently in Sweden, due to be back in a few days,” Harry said. “Adams said there were three of you. Where’s—“

Grievously injured. The words floated back across his mind and he focused on the set of James’s mouth, the tightness around his eyes. Worst case scenarios floated across his conscious mind and he wanted to be up and moving, heading for his friends as soon as possible.

Instead, he did what he could here.

“Percival.” Harry forced himself to say the name. “Is he—“

“He’s stable,” Roxy said, taking James’s hand and squeezing. James nodded, swallowing. “It was touch and go for a while, but he’s sleeping peacefully now. Was there anyone else?”

“Yes, where’s our old goat?” James said. “I’d have thought you and Merlin would be joined at the hip, now that you’re Arthur.”

Harry took a shuddering breath. “Merlin is—“

Merlin was comatose. Merlin was grievously injured for trying to save Eggsy’s life and thinking his own was acceptable in exchange. Merlin had thought to die singing, mourning that Harry hadn’t remembered who he was. Who they were. Merlin who would rather die than live in a world where he and Harry didn’t exist together. Merlin was—

Merlin is—

James picked up on it first. He recognized Harry’s helpless quiet, the hesitation in his words.

“Oh. Oh no,” James said. “Harry—“

“Lancelot,” Harry said. Now was not the time to wallow. Now was the time to act. His tone was crisp and professional, laced with the steel that kept his spine straight in the face of the weight that the yoke of Arthur would place upon his shoulders.

“Sir,” both James and Roxy said in unison. Both of them straightened, the tone of his voice making their gazes go serious.

Champ snorted, muttering something about checking under beds before replacing agents, and Harry ignored it in favor of giving his first order as Arthur. “Gather what you need and rendezvous with us at the Statesman compound. I will be phoning Galahad and bringing him back as well. If Percival is safe to be transported…?”

Adams nodded. “He is. He stabilized enough for us to consider it safe, though he is still comatose. We can airlift him to your location.”

“Then bring him.” He gave the two Knights a curt nod and they both rose to prepare. He turned to Adams, his head bowed to her. “My lady, you have no idea how much this means to me. You have my deepest thanks for recovering three stellar agents and lessening my load quite considerably as I rebuild my organization.”

“Charming,” Adams said. Harry’s gaze rose to her face and he saw that she meant that in the most sincere sense. There was no malice or mockery there, and it didn’t feel like humbling himself so much as it felt like the right thing to do, with no hit to his pride whatsoever. “Much better than your predecessors. I look forward to working with you, Arthur.”

“And I, you,” he said. As the call ended, he turned his attention back to Champ.

“You’re the first person I’ve ever seen to win her over so quickly,” he said, his tone speculative. “I don’t know if that means you’re better at it than I am or what, but if she hadn’t trusted you, she’d have made pleasantries and hung up without breathing a word of your wayward agents there.”

“Then I’m doubly grateful,” Harry said. “A request, if I may.”

“You name it,” Champ said.

“I should like to fly in Kingsman’s personal physician. This is not a slight to Whiskey’s considerable skills, Morgana has been tending our wounds since before I joined the organization, and I want her to look at both of my incapacitated Knights. There is also the matter of coordinating and extricating Merlin’s animals, as well as coordinating the rest of the staff for our move to Scotland.”

“You’re not keeping the tailors?” Champ asked.

“We are, we will be setting up shop in Glasgow.” Harry’s smile was fierce as he calculated. “We will rebuild the shop on Savile Row as a diversionary front, but our main base of operations will have to be moved. Our Knights will use it to re-equip as necessary but for safety’s sake, we must adjourn elsewhere.”

“Smart,” Champ said. “All right. I’ll send your Galahad to pick up Morgana and Merlin’s animals, and I’ll have our staff coordinate travel vouchers to get your people to Scotland. To a profitable relationship, Arthur.”

“Cheers,” Harry said, pushing his chair back and rising. “We’ll sign the rest of your paperwork in the morning.”

“Sounds good,” Champ said. As Harry turned to walk away, he called out. “Good call, by the way. I expect big things from you, Arthur.”

“Then I shall endeavor to live up to expectation,” Harry replied, letting the boardroom door shut quietly behind him. He sought his bed, his head reeling with plans and with no way to execute them but to wait. He wanted nothing more than Merlin’s hand in his as he moved Kingsman forward into the future.

The stars overhead shone on, cold and unfeeling as he crossed the compound, watching over them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moving right along. I still have prompts, but I wanted to get this out while the conversation with Champ and Harry was still fresh in my mind. Meet Adams, isn't she lovely?
> 
> We have such sights to show you, stay tuned! (As always, feel free to prompt me more. I've got room, though I might not get to yours immediately!)
> 
>  
> 
> [Philomena Fox](http://nabj-la.org/beta/wp-content/uploads/2015/02/Nichelle-Nichols-BlueBG-CO.jpg)


	8. A Mother's Duty (Post TGC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgana's curse is that she cares too much.

Kingsman was in pieces.

She sat aboard the private jet, surrounded by dogs. Merlin’s, put to kennel when he and Galahad fled the country following Poppy’s attack on their estate. They took turns coming to her for attention, as well-behaved as ever; Merlin would never allow an untrained animal to leave his care. Morgana stroked her fingers through each one’s fur, scratching their ears. It was a long flight, but she was alone save the dogs. The rest of the staff were being relocated to Scotland.

Kingsman was _rebuilding_. The world moved faster than she remembered. Kingsman survived, and had even appointed a new Arthur. He was requesting that she come stateside, where two of their number were grievously injured.

She was glad to see any of them alive, injured or not. The missiles that had struck Kingsman’s headquarters were ICBMs of a size that told her that they were bunker busters. Designed to penetrate rock and steel, to rattle a hidey-hole to its foundations. She remembered how the ground had shaken, right after they’d shrieked across the sky like a modern banshee. Those missiles had been intended to destroy; she was lucky that the Kingsman grounds extended out as far as they did—the way the earth shook meant that if she’d been closer, she might not have lived to tell the tale.

She’d come straight home and sealed up her little cottage, surviving on her tinned food and watching the news. Staff had doomsday protocols, most of which amounted to ‘stay put, and we’ll contact you’. If there was no contact, staff would be released a letter of recommendation and six months of salary with which to find new employ.

While she could have remained in her cottage indefinitely, Galahad showing up on her doorstep told her that her duty wasn’t done. While having none of the polish of his predecessor, Eggsy Unwin was a sight for sore eyes all the same. She wasn’t ashamed to admit she might have crushed him a little with her hug.

Morgana had a bad habit of caring too much; she treated the men and women under her supervision as family, and perhaps that was wrong. Still, it had never affected her duties, nor had it ever felt wrong. She cared, because she watched them suffer, watched them break against the walls of mental and physical stress, watched them pick themselves back up. PTSD was not uncommon; more than one of them had old ghosts which didn’t rest easy.

Some of them had no one to stand vigil. Some had formed bonds, like James and Martin. Some had lost those bonds, like Merlin. All of them still felt the loss of the previous Galahad keenly; he had been a fixture of the organization for close to four decades. Morgana still found herself thinking of Eggsy as a probationary agent at times.

He was so young. They always recruited them young. Knights that survived into their fifties and sixties were common, but the young were always desirable. Able to be molded, led easily. Always more willing to jump into danger.

And now, as they did after every mission, they needed her. What else could she do but heed the call?

“You’ll be happy to see your master, won’t you?” she murmured, rubbing Artemis under her jaw. The Doberman whuffed softly. “I thought so. I’ll be glad as well.”

Merlin was a man she considered a son. Many of the current generation could be considered thus; Harry had been the first that had pinged that instinct, but Merlin…

She had never had children of her own. Not that there hadn’t been ample opportunity over her long life, but simply because there hadn’t been time. Kingsman had come first, as it always had. Her attachment to the Knights under her care had extended to what amounted to mothering them, if harassing them to take it easy while they recovered could be defined as mothering. Perhaps it did, in the strange and ungainly knit that was a Kingsman’s life—relationships were like a lumpy sweater that didn’t fit quite right. Sometimes, though, it was all they had.

She’d watched the nascent romance bloom between the two pairs, each different and yet self-contained with a wonder that she’d never been able to recapture. She’d loved, in her own way, but it had never been like this.

Thomas Brampton had been special. She’d started there, and perhaps that was weakness coming to the fore. Their relationship that wasn’t. Their partnership that was a ghost of what it could have, should have been. And then…

Merlin, Martin, James…and Harry. The generation that had started with Galahad’s appointment held a special place in her heart, coming into her life at just the right time. She’d lost two. Men who were more than Knights, the sons she never had.

Kentucky had taken Harry from her. Her eldest, the most reckless, the one who threw himself into danger with a relish that gave her heart palpitations, he’d been shot in the head. Merlin had been the one to tell her, his own eyes red from weeping he’d done in private. They’d drunk to him, and to the new Galahad, this boy made of sunshine that was like Harry Hart reincarnated, with the same bluster and need to prove himself.

Ironic, then, that she was journeying to the place that had claimed him. Not to bury him, but to save two of his closest companions.

She’d regained James from the jaws of death, Valentine’s cells disgorging him from their nightmarish depths broken and much more sober than the bright personality he had been, but alive nonetheless. His recovery had been the slowest of the Knights. The slice from clavicle to groin from Gazelle, initially (and wrongly) interpreted by Harry to have been fatal, had healed, but the psychological wounds were many, and long term torture might render James unable to ever return to the table. His replacement, his niece Roxanne, had her own special place in Morgana’s heart.

The girl was clever, too clever by half, and her humanity was more than apparent in the way that she’d shouldered the care of both her uncles as they navigated this new, albeit familiar, relationship.

Morgana was more than privy to the private lives of these four—she’d encouraged it, where she could. Foolish, perhaps, but rather a fool than watch another generation live with the regrets of a choice that had been made for them. She thought of Thomas’s headstone, the grave on Kingsman property empty, and a solid ache filled her.

This damnable caring, being unable to protect them herself, only able to patch them up and send them out all over again. In times like these, she felt irrevocably old.

It was going to be a long flight, despite the technological advances of the jet she was seated in; one couldn’t speed up travel time by much, even by jet. It would be eight hours before she arrived in Kentucky to present herself to the new Arthur. She’d quite forgotten to ask who wore the crown now, and Eggsy had been sent on too many errands for him to stay and talk like she would have preferred.

Even now, he was moving through the ranks of the staff, delivering travel vouchers as well as relocation papers and details. He was their only mobile Knight at the moment, with Arthur keeping vigil over their currently comatose Merlin while Lancelot and James Spencer kept an eye on their wounded Percival.

Despite herself, the cabin’s comfort and the constant vigilance of the dogs lulled her to sleep, and she dozed, dreaming of nothing, blessed nothing.

* * *

Kentucky was chilly; she could see the fog rolling in across the compound as the jet taxied in to the disembarking zone. Statesman was not a new concept to her, nor was she surprised that Merlin had sought out their sister organization; he was a smart man, one of the smartest, and even he knew when to ask for help. She’d kept her counsel about them – it had been Chester’s wish and while she loathed the man, it had been a direct order. Now, however, she owed them much.

They’d saved her boys.

The dogs were getting restless. They sensed an end to their journey, and while well trained, Morgana could see the lines of their bodies tensing as they looked out the windows.

“All right, then,” she said. She rose to her feet, collecting herself. “You lot look to be about ready to jump out of your skins.”

They whined, tails wagging as she spoke to them. She knew all their command words; Merlin had kept her in the loop in case of just such a contingency, and the dogs were taught to obey her as well. While Merlin’s German was far more precise, her syllables were softer as she ordered them to sit. They obeyed, tails thumping as she pressed hands to many shaggy heads.

She pulled her woolen cardigan around her more tightly, re-fixing her hair in its neatly coiled bun. It had gotten away from her while she slept, and it wouldn’t do for Statesman to see her as a bedraggled, soggy mess. First impressions were important, and she was still a Kingsman.

The pilot opened the door for her and extended the stairs. She thanked him, and he tipped his cap to her. Morgana left her carry-on for now; the heavy medical bag would be taken directly to their medical wing, per her instructions. All she had with her was her umbrella (a lighter, more specialized version of the Rainmaker developed for her by Merlin), and her purse. She stepped out onto the top step and looked around her.

The first thing that she noticed was the smell. Pine and vegetation, mixed with the smell of churned earth, it couldn’t hide the faint tang of fermentation that hung across the property. Not an unpleasant smell, it was just a reminder that alcohol was produced here. The fog was thick enough now to obscure most of the compound, the Statesman towers appearing as dim, ominous shapes in the distance.

She made her way down the steps, the dogs behind her as she set foot on American soil for the first time in many, many years. Staff moved about in a bustle and paid her no mind while they unloaded the plane; and she peered about her, looking for direction.

There should have been an agent to meet her. It was customary protocol, and she was concerned when it didn’t happen. That meant that either something hadn’t been passed on (highly unlikely) or that there was trouble.

“Morgana,” came a voice. She stopped, the trembling in her limbs pronounced. She forced herself into stillness, turning with her umbrella clutched in her hands, a white-knuckled grip that betrayed her emotion the way her outwardly calm face did not. Not just because she knew that voice, but because that voice had been dead for nearly two years.

She turned, her eyes alighting on the man appearing from the fog like a spectre. She had tended his wounds, knew him up and down. He carried himself still with that easy, practiced grace, as though aristocracy was a gift and he was just taking his due. Long legs carried him across the tarmac, his slender waist and broad shoulders making him appear larger than life as he approached. The same indolent curl escaped his ministrations even now, drifting to his forehead in the damp of the fog. Her eyes locked on to the blackened glass of his spectacle lens, and suddenly, she understood.

Harry Hart was alive. He had survived, by some miracle. This was no ghost; a ghost would appear the way he had in her dreams more times than she cared to admit. This Harry was real, in some form or fashion.

“Have you brought the tea?” she asked, her voice sharper than she’d intended as she brandished her Rainmaker at him. He stopped short of her, a flicker of emotion across his face, something startled and then fond appearing and disappearing as quickly as it came. He didn’t approach any further, remaining where he was, knowing this check.

Normally, it was used beyond closed doors, to suss out if a Kingsman was alone or if he’d brought guests. An older code, one not used much in this day of being able to see through walls, thanks to Merlin’s spectacles. But it was one that Harry had used before, and one she would hold him to.

“Of course,” Harry said softly. “The way you like it. Earl Grey, milk, five sugars. A bit sweet for me, Mags.”

She could feel her lip trembling, the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks even as she broke and ran to him. He caught her, her hands fisted in the lapels of his suit, her face pressed against his chest as she sobbed. Harry wrapped his arms around her, holding her close and swaying with her, a rock against the storm of her grief and emotion spilling over.

It hadn’t just been his answer; he’d known the code. Milk meant friendly, the amount of people (in this case five), meant their Knights included Lancelot, Galahad, Percival, Merlin, and James. Anyone would have been able to know that code, if they’d studied the Kingsman long enough—it was the type of tea that had assured her it was Harry. Only Thomas had used Earl Grey in his identifier, most Knights simply stated English breakfast tea. He’d gone out of his way to reassure her, even as he wrapped his arms around her now.

“Where the devil have you been, Galahad?” she asked, her voice thick and muffled as she collected herself. He smoothed a hand up and down her back, letting her get herself together.

“Arthur, now,” he said.

She gave a watery laugh, accepting his handkerchief to dab at her eyes. She sniffled, blotting her face before she answered. “Lord help us all.”

Harry tipped back his head, laughing. It was a rusty sound, as though he hadn’t done it in quite some time, but there was a clarity there, in both the laugh and his expression. In an instant, the clouds of concern had washed away, replaced by the young man who had come into her care so long ago.

Harry Hart had been her charge since 1980. The only one who possibly knew him better was Merlin, and Morgana felt better about stepping back into work than she had in a long, long time. That Harry had been chosen for Arthur, that he had survived at all, spoke of the Devil’s own luck, and they would need that luck to rebuild in a timely manner.

She reached up, cupping his face. He endured her cursory examination with all the patience of a little boy waiting to be released to go play, which only further cemented that this was her Harry before her. The eldest of the men she considered sons had returned to her.

Now she needed to see to the others.

“Take me to them,” she said. “And tell me everything that’s happened.”

He straightened, nodding as he held out an arm. She took it, and he tucked her fingers in the crook of his elbow as he guided her deep into the compound. His German was far more polished as he called the dogs to heel, and all eleven trailed behind them in a neat line, drawing stares from the staff.

Morgana took no notice, already reviewing what she knew.

It was her duty, and she would see it through. She would spit into the eyes of God Himself if it meant that she could keep her sons with her just that little bit longer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet, hands down, one of my favorite original characters I have ever created -- right next to Thomas. Morgana is Kingsman's physician, as I feel that leaving everything to Merlin is hardly fair, with as busy as that would make him. In my head, her faceclaim is [Dame Helen Mirren](https://cdn.images.express.co.uk/img/dynamic/12/590x/secondary/Helen-Mirren-215354.jpg), and she's been looking after these dummies since 1980. She was inducted into Kingsman in 1962, the first titled female staff-member, though not a Knight (that singular honor is Roxy Morton's, thank you.)
> 
> While I've mentioned her before, I've never really delved into depth with her. This was a fun change of pace. Normally we see her on the sidelines, or from Harry and Merlin's perspective.
> 
> I hope you're enjoying, Constant Readers!


	9. Uneasy Lies the Head that Wears a Crown (Post TGC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A guilty conscience makes for an uneasy rest.

Cambodia was hot and humid, leaving Merlin sweating in his bespoke. It was better to sweat than to be dead, however, he told himself as he and Eggsy pushed their way through the jungle toward the plateau where Poppy’s signal originated. Merlin had stumbled upon it quite by luck, and he was glad he had; they had very little time to get the antidote distributed, thanks to Whiskey’s shenanigans in Italy.

Things had not been working out well for the Kingsman/Statesman alliance, he thought with a quiet huff as he pushed aside more vegetation and swept for landmines in front of him. Eggsy followed in his footsteps, the young man making barely any noise as he and Merlin ghosted through the trees. He was almost sullen in his movements, as though he begrudged being here, though Merlin had an idea that this wasn’t about him or the mission.

Before the compound’s walls appeared, Merlin hunkered down on his haunches in a small clearing. It looked to be used for guards’ smoke breaks, though there was no one here at present. He clapped Eggsy on the shoulder as he squatted next to Merlin, and Eggsy met his gaze, his eyes troubled.

“What’s got you knotted up, boy?” Merlin asked in a hoarse whisper. All around them, birds sang and twittered, and he kept track of their noise to warn him of approaching foes. Eggsy’s brow was sheened in sweat; his bespoke wasn’t breathing any better than Merlin’s, and the tech wizard pulled his handkerchief from an inner pocket to mop his own shaven head before continuing.

“It’s my fault we’re out here, Merlin,” Eggsy said, his voice low as he glanced around them. “You should be back on the plane, or in the tech station with Ginger Ale, not out here.”

“And let you go it alone?” Merlin asked. “Perish the thought. You needed the backup, and like hell was I letting another of those jumped up Americans butt in.”

“This never would have happened if Harry were here,” Eggsy said. “My instincts were off. I was the one that handed the bottle to Whiskey. I was the one who let him break the antidote. I never should have pulled it out to look at it.”

The old ache threatened to sear through Merlin again. Harry had been dead near to two years, the strain of his passing evident every time Merlin went to sleep at night with his hand resting on the side of his bed that would never be occupied again. His thumb twitched, but he shook it off, not about to let the guilt and self-pity swallow him.

He’d had enough time for tears. The mission was more important now.

“Enough,” Merlin said. “Remember what I told you in training? You need to take that chip off your shoulder. That includes blaming yourself for this. What’s done is done, and beating yourself about the head with it is going to get us exactly none of the antidote or the launch codes.”

Eggsy’s gaze snapped to Merlin, and he nodded at Galahad, watching the resolve straighten his spine.

“Come on, we need to get moving,” Merlin said. “We’re going to be just fine.”

The clicking of several safeties belied Merlin’s words almost immediately. Slowly, Merlin raised his hands, the minesweeper in his left hand. He was divested of it quickly, and he was pushed to the ground, Eggsy beside him struggling against the knee in his back. Merlin spat out the leaves he’d inhaled as he was pressed to the forest floor, but it was no use resisting as their hands were bound with zipties, their weapons discarded.

At least, the ones the thugs could see. They all wore versions of the same letterman jacket, looking like something out of an old pulp movie. They were hauled to their feet, Merlin and Eggsy marched toward the front gates.

The aesthetic of the compound was strange. It was the fifties in America, though Merlin didn’t know why it looked like a macabre parody. Perhaps it had something to do with the creep of the jungle, the constant chatter of monkeys invading the air as they scrabbled through the ruined façade of the theater, squabbling over whatever leftover scraps they’d recovered. A patina of despair lay over the compound. It felt almost like a liminal space, where the lines between reality and fantastic became real.

He and Eggsy were marched through the center of the compound, the vacant, steely gazes of the guards washing over them. Cobbled streets had begun to give way to vegetation again, the initial settlement long ago abandoned for bigger, more ambitious projects. They passed a darkened salon, the bottles on the shelves cheerfully arranged for no one in particular.

They were ushered into the diner that seemed to be the whole centerpiece in the rear, and the guards left them. It was strange that they would, but then Merlin reconsidered – really, where could they go? The jungle stretched for miles in every direction, they had the minesweeper, and it wasn’t as if they couldn’t be seen leaving – all the exits appeared to be on the front.

The small restaurant was quiet, almost idyllic, if it didn’t have that same washed out, post-apocalyptic abandonment feel that soaked into what felt like the very atmosphere. The smell of the jungle gave way to the scent of old grease and onions.

The diner was a combination of what looked to be a diner and an office space. There were back rooms, and a corner where a table and a laptop were set up, pens scattered across the surface. The counter in front of the griddle was polished to a mirror shine and each place was set with a menu and within easy reach of condiments.

Merlin wasted no time. The winding dial of his watch was reachable, and he twisted until he could hear the sizzle of the welding laser hit the floor behind him. He wriggled, sweating as his skin got closer and closer to the heat source and then—

His hands were free. He turned to get Eggsy’s, but the lad had already wriggled out of his, popping his thumb out of place and sliding one hand free of the loop. Merlin tapped his glasses and took a look around.

The whole place was wired with tech. Glancing out the window, he saw the telltale lines of a city power grid overlaid out until just the edge of the forest. Poppy had way more going on for herself than he realized at first. This could be…a problem.

The laptop seemed to be their best bet, and Merlin would give up his good tartan throw back home if it wasn’t their only choice within reach. He strode towards it, mounting the short flight of steps that separated the office and diner like a small dais.

“I wouldn’t proceed any further if I were you,” came a voice from the back. Merlin froze, not just in surprise, but in recognition.

He knew that voice. He’d held long conversations with it in the deep watches of the night, buried away in the middle of Central where they’d never be found. He’d heard that voice call his name in hundreds of different ways over their over thirty year acquaintance. His limbs felt like lead, his extremities cold, even in the Cambodian heat.

Slowly, he forced himself to turn his head. Eggsy was a pale spectre beside him, eyes rounded as they watched Harry Hart emerge from the back of the restaurant. Clad in a cooling, light seersucker suit, Harry cut an impressive figure still. The three-piece suit was a light blue, save for the vest which offset the bright pastel with a slash of dark blue around his trim waist. His left eye bore a patch, the same light blue as his suit. Merlin drank him in, hands starting to tremble as he turned.

“Harry?” he said. His tongue felt too large for his mouth, like he was talking around an obstruction and he realized it was a well of emotion that was choking him.

“Don’t move,” Harry warned. He reached into his suit coat and withdrew a revolver. It was lighter than the standard issue Tokarevs, though Merlin had no doubt that Harry would use it, accuracy impeded by his missing eye or not. He stilled, waiting on Harry to recognize him.

“Harry, it’s us,” Eggsy said. He didn’t start forward, but the strain in Eggsy’s limbs showed how much he wanted to. He swallowed hard, his face a mask of desperation. “Harry—“

“Poppy wouldn’t like it if you were to muck about in something you had no business touching,” Harry said, interrupting. “Have a seat at the counter, gentlemen.”

Merlin slowly backed down off the dais, the gun trained on him. Eggsy moved for the counter, clambering onto one of the stools, and Merlin followed, taking a seat. Harry moved around behind the griddle, the gun still trained on them.

“Who are you?” Harry asked.

“Your friends,” Merlin said, his heart breaking as he watched Harry’s lone eye sliding over them with no recognition whatsoever. Frowning, he tried something. “Harry, it’s been too long. I need to get my brogues resoled.”

Eggsy picked up on it immediately. “Yes, my oxfords could do with a bit of care as well.”

“Why are you talking to me about your shoes?” Harry asked, wrinkling his nose. The gun didn’t waver, and neither did he.

A burst of commotion from outside made him turn his head slightly, and Merlin could see the flash of gold against where his pulse beat in his neck. A neat and tidy golden circle outlined his carotid artery. Satisfied the noise was only the monkeys in another squabble, Harry returned his attention to his captives.

“You’ve made a mess of the floor,” Harry said, indicating the scorch spot with a jerk of his head. “Not very polite to your host, are you?”

“I can repair it,” Merlin said. “But tell me, Harry, how did you start working for Poppy? When?”

Harry’s expression flickered, as though he couldn’t reconcile what he was doing with what he remembered. Merlin felt a flicker in his mind, that nuance of a nascent idea blooming. He kept his questions exact, carefully chipping away.

“Do you remember anything before you worked for Poppy?” he pressed.

“Why are you asking me this?” Harry said. “Shut up.”

“Just making conversation,” Merlin said.

“Yes, it’s only polite.” Eggsy had caught on, if the gentle nudge from the young man’s knee was any indication. “You don’t remember, do you?”

“I don’t know you,” Harry snapped. “And you’re about to have more holes in you, so I’d advise you to shut up.”

“You don’t remember me, do you, Harry?” Merlin tapped his foot quietly against the side of Eggsy’s ankle. When-I-move-you-run-and-go-for-Poppy.

Eggsy’s chin dipped minutely. He’d heard.

“No – I – be quiet,” Harry said. There was a tremble in his words, however, and Merlin pressed.

“No, Harry. You don’t get to talk to me that way,” Merlin said. “I walked you out of so many life or death situations I should be given a god damned medal for it. I have been your partner for over thirty years and memory issues or not, you don’t get to tell me to be quiet, sir.”

“Don’t call me that,” Harry snapped, looking confused as to why he’d said it.

_You don’t call me sir. You don’t ever call me sir._

_Or what, Galahad?_

_My name is Harry Hart._

_That doesn’t mean **anything** here._

“Or what, Galahad?” Merlin pressed. He’d risen to his feet without realizing it, pressing his palms against the cracked and faded patina of the counter. “What will you do?”

“My name is Harry Hart!” Harry shouted, and he leveled the gun at Merlin.

Merlin was up and over the counter in an instant, the gunshot going wild and sparking off the chrome of the entry door. His fist met Harry’s face, cracking across his jaw to stun him while Merlin moved to divest him of his pistol. He kicked it away, Eggsy bolting for the back rooms.

It was a struggle, holding Harry down. Though he might not remember Merlin, his Kingsman training was ingrained in his muscle memory. He bucked, attempting to throw Merlin off, and Merlin smacked his head against the steel underside of the griddle. He swore, and Harry punched him in the temple.

He saw stars, his breath going for a moment as he was stunned. Harry flipped them, reaching for one of the knives on the block above them. Merlin grabbed his arm, and there was a brief struggled where they flailed at each other on the diner floor, neither one really having the leverage to do more than push and pull the other. Merlin got himself up, halfway, and slammed his forehead into Harry’s nose, the cartilage giving a horrifying crack.

_D’you reckon they have protocols in place? I was reading and I couldn’t find any._

_For what?_

_For…for if you can’t remember. Like amnesia._

_Merlin, this is real life. Amnesia is the result of very specific actions in the brain, not some sort of tabloid plot point. This sounds like one of my headlines._

_I…you’re right, of course._

_Why do you ask?_

_In case you ever forgot me._

_Forget you? Darling. As if I could forget you. You’re as integral in my life as breathing. Even when we aren’t together. There’s nothing that I work for that isn’t for you, as well._

_Pretty words, Galahad._

_The prettiest, Merlin. They’re true._

Harry sank his teeth into Merlin’s forearm, and Merlin gave a grunt of pain. He kneed Harry in the groin, and watched the soft brown of Harry’s eye roll wild before he collapsed off to the side with a grunt. Merlin stood, panting, and shoved all the cutlery out of reach before he went to find the revolver.

The hammer clicking back made him turn, catching sight of Poppy, her hair mussed and her makeup askew as she held the revolver.

“Step away,” she said. “That’s not very polite. And my floor! Goodness gracious you’re a bad boy.”

Merlin lifted his hands in surrender, his temple trickling blood onto the lapel of his bespoke.

“I suppose it’s a good thing that the mines got you the first time,” she sighed.

“What?” he asked. He was dizzy, the crack to the head making him feel dull and slow-witted.

“I said it’s a good thing there’s only two of you,” she said. “The mines just aren’t doing their jobs anymore.”

“Where’s the boy?” Merlin said.

“Oh, him? I stunned him. He’s gonna be reprogrammed. You know, he seemed so distraught about my bodyguard there, I thought, ‘why not let them work together?’ Because you know, once I get my hands on something, it’s gone forever. Just like Kingsman.”

Merlin wobbled on his feet.

“Oh, but you. You’re a fighter. I don’t think you’d take very well to the treatment.” Poppy tapped her fingers to ruby red lips as she considered. “Harry, dear, are you all right?”

“Apologies, Miss Poppy,” Harry said. He shuffled to his feet, his nose running freely down the front of his seersucker, coloring the pastels even darker. “They—“

“I know they did, sweetie. But it’s okay. I’m going to let the boy join us. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A little companion to while away the time?”

“I…thank you, madam,” Harry said. His voice was slow, sluggish. Merlin met his eyes, pleading with him. “Shall I…?”

He gestured to Merlin, and Merlin struggled to breathe. Something about the whole thing was making panic rise in his throat, fear and bile joining a knot and making it hard to swallow.

“Don’t do this,” Merlin choked out. “Don’t. Harry.”

“I think it’s a good idea,” Poppy said. “You know how I feel about those nasty loose ends. We’ll have to deal with Statesman, too. They didn’t respect my deal.”

The buzz of starting machinery invaded his ears. Harry had flicked the switch to a meat grinder right beside the griddle, industrial sized with a hopper big enough to feed a cow through whole. Merlin was rooted to the spot as Harry approached. Poppy kept the gun trained on him.

Merlin couldn’t move. For some reason, it felt like his limbs were made of lead and he was walking through quicksand. Harry grabbed him from behind, his arms locking around Merlin’s chest in a way that was both terrifying and intimate, his breath in Merlin’s ear as he dragged Merlin toward the grinder.

“Harry,” Merlin whispered.

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmured. “But Poppy’s made up her mind. You shouldn’t have ruined the floor.”

“Oh, and Harry, dove,” Poppy said. The endearment made Merlin ill, his vision going white at the edges. Harry looked over. “Don’t make it quick. I want to watch him suffer. Feed him in feet first.”

“Yes, madam.” Harry lifted Merlin. He tried to struggle, but there wasn’t much he could do – Harry’s grip on him was inexorable. His limbs wouldn’t respond to him. Merlin watched in horror as the shined tips of his shoes entered the hopper and a fine red mist sprayed up and into his face.

There was no pain. Merlin didn’t know if his condition was worsening or if it was just his brain trying to shut out the trauma, but all he could feel was cold. Harry held him, feeding him in slowly, his breath in Merlin’s ear louder than the grinder as Merlin’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, darkness reaching up to swallow him.

* * *

Morgana washed her hands in the sink at last, checking on her patient with one last glance over his vitals. Merlin slept easily now, the ventilator removed and his eyes flickering in REM sleep. Harry’s hand in Merlin’s hadn’t loosened, and she looked over him with an almost exasperated fondness.

“It’s normal for him to fight the ventilator,” she assured him, and Harry appreciated that she was attempting to soothe his anxiety. Morgana brushed back his hair from where it was curling loose and cupped his face, forcing him to look at her. “In fact, it’s a good thing. It means his body wants to breathe on its own, and it’s a good step towards him waking up.”

“I know, Morgana,” Harry said, feeling cold and helpless all the same. Merlin lay pale against the pillows, his cheeks covered in the beginnings of a healthy growth of beard.

“All the same, Arthur, I can appreciate that it must have been terrifying to wake up to him choking like he was,” she said. Harry sagged a little in her hands, pressing his cheeks against her warm palms. If anyone would understand, it would be Morgana. She tugged his spectacles off, checking over his eye again. “And you’ve been sleeping with the patch, yes?”

“Yes,” Harry said, letting her fuss over him. “It helps, you said.”

“It does,” she assured him. “Just like the sleep is helping Merlin.”

“Is he in pain?” Harry asked, returning his gaze to Merlin’s sleeping form as Morgana handed him his spectacles back.

“It’s hard to say,” she said. She rested a hand on his shoulder, and he took strength in having her here and clucking after all of them, including Martin, James, and Roxy. She’d come off the plane in a tizzy, demanding to see this new Arthur.

And she’d nearly murdered him when he’d stepped out of Champ’s office, mostly whole.

“You know that his condition might worsen the pain of recovery,” she reminded him. “If he hadn’t been in a coma on the flight back from Cambodia, I might have induced one myself.”

He nodded, feeling reassured, if only a little bit.

“He’s taking well to the healing kits that Whiskey has put together,” Morgana said. “There should be a minimum of scarring, but he’ll never walk without prosthesis again.”

“But he’s here, Morgana,” Harry said. “We’re both here.”

“That’s true,” she conceded. “And that’s a good thing, as far as I’m concerned.”

He glanced up at her, his brow knitting.

“Harry,” she said, smiling at him. “If there was anyone more suited to taking the role of Arthur and rebuilding Kingsman, I couldn’t name him. You have thirty years of seeing how we’ve done things – and thirty years of railing against things you thought weren’t fair.”

Harry’s gaze returned to Merlin.

“I think that, given the opportunity, you would bring our organization into the modern world, without Chester King digging his heels in every step of the way.” She squeezed his shoulder, and he nodded. “I look forward to working with you.”

“I do believe that’s the first time I’ve heard you say that,” he said.

She chuckled. “No, it isn’t, but I’ll admit you only see me most days when I’m patching you up.”

Harry offered her a weak smile. “Forgive me, Morgana. If I could have—“

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” she said, cutting him off. “Would have, should have, could have. These are things that are outside of even a Kingsman’s ability. We can do, we can be. But we cannot go back and change things. So we must endeavor to be superior to our former selves.”

“When did you get so wise?” he asked, rising. He pressed a kiss to her cheek, and she swatted him before she gathered her things to go.

“I’ve always been wise, you just haven’t been listening.” Harry smiled at her, and she offered him a watery one in return. “Get some sleep. We have more meetings in the morning.”

“Yes, Mags,” he said. He saw her to the door, then returned to the small rigged bed that had been his home for the last two months. As he crawled onto the small platform, he turned himself toward Merlin, his fingers finding his partner’s.

He had to admit, seeing him without the tubes running through his mouth and down his throat was more and more reassuring. The noises that Merlin had made while attempting to reject them, not so much. Now, however, Harry just let his eyes roam over Merlin’s profile.

They’d lost so much to be here. Just…be here, together. Harry’s eye misted over, but he simply brought Merlin’s hand to his lips, brushing them over his knuckles and scooting as close as he could. The movement jostled Merlin a little, and Harry froze as the man in bed beside him began to stir.

His eyelids fluttered, his brow wrinkling as he turned his head. His lashes, fanned out across his face as he’d slept, lifted. Merlin stared about himself groggily, coming to grips with where he was and what he was doing here. He turned his head, catching sight of Harry, frozen where he lay, his eye large and dark in his face.

“Harry?” Merlin said, confusion lacing his voice. His voice sounded rusty, disused and foreign, his brogue thick enough to touch, but Merlin was awake, and alive. Harry’s heart thundered in his ears, his hand in Merlin’s trembling.

Harry squeezed his fingers, nodding. Merlin lay back with the smallest of sighs. Harry gave a shuddering breath of relief as a small smile played across Merlin’s face as he closed his eyes.

“Late again, sir.”

“Better late than never,” Harry replied. His voice shook, and he felt Merlin’s hand squeeze his own, the sure, strong fingers weak now from his recovery, but **_here_**.

Merlin’s smile only widened. It was good to be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to Kinginspanx -- you know what you did. 
> 
>  
> 
> _You know._
> 
>  
> 
> (There's a brief callback to [Smoking Gun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3812251/chapters/8622862) in there, if only in spirit.)
> 
> More to come, we're moving right along. This one is going before 'On Understanding' for timeline reasons. If you like, feel free to check out my other work, [Bon Dia!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12280920/) \-- which covers early Merlahad before our old spy dads got quite so old. As always, comments are appreciated, and feel free to prompt me on tumblr!


	10. Misapprehensions (Post TGC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Between what is said and not meant, and what is meant and not said, most of love is lost.” ― Kahlil Gibran

 

Everything was a blur. The world around Merlin had shifted so drastically, so rapidly, that he was feeling very old and left out by the time that he felt well enough to begin physical therapy. The night he’d woken felt like another of the vivid dreams brought along by the nanites preventing his brain from bleeding out. Whiskey had seen to his scans, and had proclaimed him mentally fit. Morgana had used other, more conventional methods, and done much the same.

Still, Merlin felt as though he were stuffed with cotton and sewn together wrong. Everything was foggy, he spent long periods just grasping how to do every day things again. He spent a few days in bed before Morgana would allow him up and about, and she would hover until he was tucked into his wheelchair. He didn’t have the strength to go far, nor go often, but he could wheel himself to the windows and look out over the compound, could open them for fresh air and the sound of people.

He did that more often than he cared to admit. The medical wing got few visitors, though Roxy and Eggsy did more than their due diligence, bringing him local tidbits from various eateries in Louisville to try along with board games and movies. The youngest Knights were also the most solicitous, it seemed. He saw James often as well, their former Lancelot ghosting through the halls on his way to and from meetings. He spent so much time in Martin’s rooms that Whiskey had made him up a bed in there. But James always had a cheerful greeting for Merlin, and almost always made time to come and see him during the day.

Conspicuously absent was their new Arthur.

Merlin didn’t blame Harry. There must have been more than the lion’s share of work in rebuilding the Kingsman, and he must have been in meetings with Champ more than anyone else. Still, there was an absence there, like a missing tooth, and Merlin couldn’t help worrying the gap with his tongue.

Perhaps he’d dreamed waking up to Harry lying beside him, their fingers linked. Seeing the stark, almost naked sadness on Harry’s face morph into the kind of beatific joy that one talked about for years afterwards. (Though perhaps that last assessment had been the really excellent drip of morphine and other painkiller cocktail that he’d been weaned off of soon afterward.)

He and Morgana took their tea together each day, the Kingsman physician using it as an excuse to do her check up on him and catalog his progress. He let her poke and prod, the sensations strange and new as she unwound and changed bandages on his ruined shins. He hadn’t been fast enough to blunt the force of the mine completely, but the bespoke had done its duty and he’d saved most of his legs.

It really was more than he could ask for; in retrospect, the bone-crushing hug from Eggsy and Roxy had all but cemented how glad he was to be alive. James appearing soon after and doing much the same was a comfort as well. He had his family around him, tiny and broken – especially in Martin’s case – but alive. He should be thankful.

He _was_ thankful.

It was almost shameful, wanting to ask for more. He’d seen the look in Harry’s eye, the blank pity there. It had been nagging at him the entire mission, as soon as Harry had regained his memories. It had been…

There had been no recognition. He thought he’d seen a flicker, a there-and-you’ll-miss-it flash of something more in Harry’s gaze when he’d told Eggsy that it was simple math for Merlin to be on the mine rather than their young Galahad. And truthfully, if he had to make the call again, he’d do it in a heartbeat. Better him than Eggsy.

He’d almost thought he’d gotten through to Harry.

But the man’s absence from his rooms told him otherwise. It was all right, Merlin had decided. There were more important things to worry about, like getting back to par so that he could continue his duties. It was bearable to work in these conditions. He was alive, he was near Harry, and he could continue on in peace.

It was very nearly the life he’d resigned himself to after Rhodes. Perhaps that was for the best.

He looked out on the grounds now, his gaze following several tour groups as they wended their way around the property. They all seemed the same, adults that were giddy to be on a real vacation away from the kids. Some would have a sip too much of the rich whiskey that Statesman made, and would need to be poured back onto their tour bus by the guides. Still, it was a hell of a way to hide in plain sight.

He almost envied the crowds.

There was a soft chime at his door.

“It’s open,” he called, his voice rusty. He’d been quiet for so long it was starting to show.

James poked his head in, offering Merlin a cheerful grin. The corners of his mouth didn’t rise quite as high, nor did his eyes light up, but it was there, and that was enough. James was trying. Merlin should, as well.

“You wanted to see me?” he asked, stepping in as Merlin hove his wheelchair around to face him.

“I did, but only to ask a favor.” Merlin reached for his glasses and put them back on, focusing more clearly on James.

“You know you’ve only to name it, Merlin. You’ve more than earned it,” James moved into the room and plopped himself down on the edge of the bed. Merlin could tell that he’d been really worn thin with Martin’s vigil, though he was more active than ever with both Eggsy and Roxy needling him into outings and other adventures.

“I need to go to physio,” he said.

“And you need an out?” James asked, rubbing his chin. “I mean, perhaps I can cover for you once or twice but—“

“Ah, no,” Merlin said softly. He rubbed his hands on the arm rests of the wheelchair, looking away. “I’d like someone to go with me.”

“Oh,” James said. “Where’s—“

“He’s not going to be able to make it,” Merlin said. He knew the question was coming, and it pained him to say, but he muscled through it. Rip off the bandage. “There’s so much work to be done rebuilding and I can’t ask this of him right now. He’s got enough on his shoulders.”

“Oh,” James said again. He blinked, as though he were feeling a little slow today, but he nodded. “Of course, Merlin. I’m your man, should you need someone’s hand to crush when you try to stand for the first time.”

He rose and moved behind Merlin’s chair, pushing him out into the hallway.

“Thank you, James,” Merlin said. “I owe you.”

“No, Merlin,” James said. “You don’t.”

* * *

Harry watched Merlin strain at the bars. The prosthesis that Whiskey had provided Merlin fit beautifully, and she was working on developing truly motorized versions, able to support his weight with a minimum of balance and strength requirements for his comfort.

For now, however, Merlin was working hard on just learning to move again. The foot, as Whiskey had told Harry while Merlin was in a coma, was essential to a lot of human’s movement capability, in ways that a lot of people don’t recognize. Even so much as breaking one’s big toe could seriously hamper the gait and stride of a person’s walk, as the big toe formed the pivot on which most strides worked. For Merlin to lose so much meant that he would have to learn to walk again essentially from scratch.

This meant time and patience, and a lot of struggle as the wizard attempted to hold himself up by his arms and take baby steps with the new prosthesis. Harry watched Merlin’s brow wrinkle, his t-shirt already soaked with sweat as he held himself up. James was beside him, coaxing him along with murmured words of encouragement. Merlin made it three steps, wobbling. He almost fell, but James was beside him, a hand on his back, his face concerned.

Whiskey brought Merlin a chair, and James uncapped a bottle of water for him. The tech wizard sat and breathed, his chest heaving like a lathered horse’s.

Harry watched it all from behind the one-way glass. He could feel the muscles in his fingers spasm, every time Merlin struggled to his feet, got a little farther, and then sat down, hard. He ached to move into the room, to put his shoulder beneath Merlin’s arm and guide him through something that was immeasurably frustrating, and no doubt incredibly painful. He wanted to be the one to wipe away the sweat and the silent tears that trailed their way down Merlin’s face as the tech wizard stubbornly refused to give up.

His pace was a snail’s crawl, but every step Merlin took was progress, and Harry felt his own eye mist as he watched James catch Merlin when he wobbled.

He froze as Whiskey moved his way, opening the door to the observation room. She blinked, seeming surprised to see Harry here and not in the room with his fellow Kingsman. Bless her, though, she didn’t say anything out loud. Instead, she shut the door behind her, moving to stand so she could see what he saw.

“He’s progressing well,” she said. “While it might not look it, sustained walking is a chore on the body, so it stands to reason that learning to do it again without all the requisite parts is even more so.”

“Is he in a lot of pain?” Harry asked, his voice quiet.

“If he is, he won’t admit to it,” Whiskey said. Caramel colored eyes flickered to study his reflection in the one-way mirror’s glass. “Something you both have in common.”

Harry let the gentle barb she lobbed at him pass over his head.

“Are you sure that you wouldn’t like to go and see him, Arthur? I know that having you there will boost his spirits.” She folded her hands in front of her, her brows lifted innocently. “Sometimes that’s what we need most in recovery, is support.”

“I shouldn’t,” he murmured.

“With all due respect, sir,” she said, her voice gentle. He could almost see the unvoiced question in her eyes and it almost made him flinch back. “I really think you should.”

"You've been very kind. More importantly, you've been very kind to Merlin. In the spirit of that kindness, please understand when I say that now is not the time." He swallowed hard, then checked his watch. “I must meet with Champ, and so I would appreciate you not mentioning that I was here to Merlin. I was merely checking on his progress.”

“…of course.” The vague confusion solidified more in her eyes, but Harry didn’t answer her questions further. He turned on his heel and strode briskly away from the sight of Merlin struggling to stand again.

* * *

“Is this…normal, with them?” Whiskey asked as she fussed over Martin’s bandages. James sat beside the comatose Knight’s bedside, his fingers twined with his partner’s. Whiskey had seemed surprised when James insisted on helping where he could, even if it was to hold his partner’s hand to ward off what could turn into pain.

“With who?” James asked, his thumb rubbing over Martin’s knuckles. His other arm was cast and elevated to keep the swelling down, and he couldn’t breathe without mechanical aid, but Whiskey had assured him that he was doing so much better each day. The nanites reduced healing time, eating away at bruising and mending bone in weeks where it would have taken months. The problem with the nanites is that they were terribly simple creatures, in James’s opinion. They could only fix small problems, not the range of issues that Martin had when he was impaled.

The bleeding had been severe, he’d been facedown in the Thames for close to ten minutes, and he’d broken both sides of his clavicle. A punctured lungs, a ruptured spleen, six broken ribs. Fractured pelvis, fractured skull. James could go on, but he preferred not to.

He realized he hadn’t been paying attention, and he looked up to find Whiskey smoothing the bandages around Martin’s face. She was gentle with him, and that was more than enough for James. She didn’t seem to have answered him, her brow knit as she worked out what she wanted to say.

“Your Arthur and Merlin. Is it…normal for them to…not see each other?” she asked. She looked like she might not have meant to ask in the first place, as though she were privy to information he was not. James’s focus sharpened on it, remembering the conversation he’d had with Merlin earlier today.

_He’s not going to be able to make it._

“Have you seen Harry today?” he asked. He kept his tone neutral, knowing that his reaction was for Harry, and not for the woman in front of him. Whiskey nodded, stepping back to dispose of the bandages she’d changed.

“He was…he was in the observation room, though he said he was late for a meeting when I asked if he wanted to come and cheer Merlin on,” she said.

James felt his jaw jump as he ground his teeth.

“Please don’t be too angry with him. Sometimes it can be hard, seeing a loved one in pain or struggling. It can be difficult to reconcile the reality that their bodies have changed and—“ She stopped herself short, staring at him, and James realized that he was goggling at her.

She didn’t know Harry and Merlin like James knew them, he had to remind himself. She’d only seen the side of Harry that had lost all his memories, thanks to the nanites. She’d only seen the side of Merlin that was trying desperately to go it alone because he didn’t think his own wants and needs came before the mission.

She was, essentially, going in blind.

“No,” he said. “They don’t normally spend this much time apart.”

He rose, feathering a kiss across Martin’s brow.

“Back soon, Darling. Get your rest.”

He marched from the room, leaving a perplexed Whiskey and a sleeping Martin behind.

* * *

Eggsy knocked on the door to Merlin’s quarters, and found the tech wizard already as hard at work as they would let him get. He was playing with one of Whiskey’s tablets, moving a model in 3-D as he tweaked and modified a design. Sitting in bed, his prosthetics were settled on a table next to him, his wheelchair pushed close to the edge of the bed so he could enter and exit easily.

Merlin glanced up, smiling as he caught sight of Eggsy. “Hello, lad. You go out and about with Lancelot today?”

“Mhm,” he said, peering at what Merlin was working on. “Can I sit?”

“Of course,” Merlin said. Eggsy handed him the bag of hot food – barbecue and roasted corn today, along with something the Americans called coleslaw. Eggsy called it a mutilation of cabbage, and he didn’t even like cabbage all too well. To his surprise, Merlin passed him the tablet. “What do you think?”

Eggsy used thumb and forefinger to twirl the design, seeing the Rainmaker open and cross-sectioned. “What are you doing to it?”

“Trying to add a blade somewhere inconspicuous,” he replied. Merlin opened the Styrofoam container, wrinkling his nose at the coleslaw but digging in to the roasted corn with a delighted noise. “I feel that if there’s a blade on the Rainmaker, Percival won’t be caught without next time.”

Eggsy frowned. Even now, Merlin was working to protect them. Some might say that Merlin was a workaholic, but Eggsy knew that this was just how he was. He liked concrete problems, things he could take with his hands and twist and turn and remake until he found a solution. Eggsy admired that about him, honestly.

He glanced at the wizard, finding him occupied with the food rather than what he’d said. He turned his attention back to the Rainmaker.

“Maybe you should keep the Rainmaker the same,” he said instead. “Because it serves a very specific purpose, and Percival is going to actually need the cane, at least for a while.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Merlin said, tilting his head owlishly at the schematic that was open. “Maybe soon. How did the grappling line work out for you?”

“Brilliantly,” Eggsy said with a smile. “Harry is a marvel.”

“I thought as much,” Merlin said. His eyes looked strained at the corners with the mention of Harry’s name. “He always was. Even down an eye I think I knew he’d still manage to find a way to excel.”

“It’s helped by the tools you give us,” Eggsy said. “We’d be nowhere without you, Merlin.”

“I…” Merlin’s ears turned a bright shade of pink. “Thank you, lad. High praise considering you return half your gear broken every mission.”

“Harry says you say the same thing to him, so I must be doing something right, hey?” Eggsy watched Merlin’s face become carefully neutral, and warning bells went off in his head. “You know, I would have never known, right? And I won’t say anything.”

“About what?” Merlin said, tilting his head.

“About you and Harry,” Eggsy said. “He told me…about you two being…”

Eggsy made a vague gesture, and Merlin’s gaze snapped to his, the hazel depths of his eyes darkening. Eggsy noticed then that Merlin looked more tired than normal, his complexion still evening out from the sallow, waxy look he’d had in the hospital. He had bruises under his eyes, and he looked as though he weren’t sleeping.

“What did he tell you? And when?”

“Er, he was tellin’ me on the plane flight back, when you were out.”

“That’s not right,” Merlin said. “He said he didn’t have anyone. I heard him on the flight to Cambodia. I—“

Eggsy had never seen Merlin look quite so confused. His brows drew down, as though to reconcile what he thought was concrete knowledge with new information.

“He told you on the flight back?”

“He said it was your singin’,” Eggsy said. He left out the part about John Denver being obnoxious, because Merlin already looked like he wanted to weep. “He said something made him remember, and the closest he could think of was you singing.”

“Oh,” Merlin carefully wiped his fingers, setting the container of food away from himself. He looked positively green.

“But…he must have told you,” Eggsy said.

Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. This wasn’t a ‘glad to be back and with someone who remembers me totally’ face. He felt a pit open in his stomach and he reached out, putting a hand on Merlin’s shoulder and squeezing.

“Eggsy, I haven’t seen Harry save in passing for the last two weeks,” he murmured. “What are you saying, he remembers?”

_Merlin. **My Merlin**. How could I have forgotten?_

Eggsy brought up his spectacles’ feed on the holographic display of the tablet, flipping back through all the pictures he’d taken over the last six weeks or so. There, nestled in a small folder, was a shot of Harry, his hand in Merlin’s, his head bowed over the wizard’s knuckles as he slipped into weary, yet uneasy sleep.

“He hadn’t moved from that spot in two days. I had to get Ginger in there to make up a bed. He wouldn’t have listened to me.”

“He…” Merlin trailed off, taking the tablet and cradling it. “Then…why?”

Eggsy gave a sharp inhale. “I’m going to go talk to Harry.”

_I’m going to go kick his face in._

“Eggsy, don’t—“

But Eggsy was already up and moving, striding fast out of the door and into the hallway.

* * *

“And so you’ve nothing to say for yourself?!” James said, making an angry gesture at Harry. Harry folded his hands in his lap, frowning.

“I’ve made my decision, Lancelot,” he said.

“Oh no, I’m not Lancelot anymore, don’t think you can hide behind titles and – and avoid me, not this time. Harry bloody Hart, super spy. You’re a fucking idiot,” James snapped. “Do you know how hard physical therapy is? You should, you’ve been in there enough times. Do you think he’d rather I was there, or you?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” Harry said, his tone clipping. James could recognize the signs of Harry’s formidable temper boiling over, but James seemed content to ignore it.

“You’re right, it doesn’t. What matters is that what you’re doing is hurting Merlin, you colossal twat.”

“Did you ever consider, for just a second, that Martin had moved on without you?” Harry asked sharply. “While you were in Valentine’s cells.”

James startled, visibly shaken by the question. “No, never. It was keeping me going, all throughout the months I was there.”

“And you recognized Martin, when he and Merlin stumbled upon you, alive.” Harry drew a deep breath into his lungs. “When Merlin came to me, that first time after I’d been shot in the head. I remembered up until my first year at Oxford. I still had dreams of becoming a lepidopterist, I still considered going home to my mother a viable solution. I did not remember Merlin.”

“But you remember him now?” James pressed, still shaking with anger. “You remember everything now?”

“For what good it will do me,” Harry said. “Merlin has undoubtedly begun to move on. I was dead for nearly two years, in my estimation. That is more than enough time for grief to have run its course. He never—“

“You great bloody idiot,” James snapped. “You’re assuming that there was anyone for Merlin in the world besides you. I’m a thick bastard but I can at least see that! Even when you two weren’t talking after your stunt in Turkey, he still adored you.”

“This isn’t up for discussion, James,” Harry snapped in return. “It’s not your business.”

“No,” James said. “It isn’t. But I’m making it my business, because Martin is asleep in the room across from Merlin’s and I would kill to have him awake and talking and becoming healthy again. You don’t just…give up when things become the least bit difficult, or did that bullet take your common sense away? Are you hiding in here because you’re afraid you’ll be wrong, or because you’re terrified that you’re right and it’s easier to assume that than find it out for sure?”

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but they were both interrupted by someone kicking the heavy wooden door of the spare study open. Harry blinked as he took in Eggsy, completely wroth about something or other.

“Right, James, out.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the door, then pointed directly at Harry. “You. I’m kicking your arse.”

“What—“

“Listen here, you little upstart, I was here first—“ James drew himself up to his full height. “If anyone is kicking his arse, it’s me. I’ve earned it.”

“Seniority, eh? You ain’t Lancelot no more,” Eggsy said. He turned toward Harry, scowling, his whole features thunderous. “But you can help, I suppose.”

“No one is going to be doing anything of the sort,” a familiar brogue barked. Harry glanced at the door, then down when his gaze trained on Merlin was too high, focusing on the man in the chair, Roxy behind him and puffing for breath. “James, Eggsy, take a walk. Cool off. Both of you. Roxy, make sure they do it.”

“Merlin, are you sure?” Roxy asked.

“I can make it back by myself,” Merlin assured her. “Go. Take them to the sparring ring or something. Have Tequila beat it out of them if you have to.”

Sullenly, Eggsy followed Roxy, James drifting along behind them. Merlin sighed as he took in the splintered door jamb. Harry was too busy studying Merlin’s face.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin said. “I told them that this wasn’t—“

“It’s all right, Merlin,” Harry said. His tongue felt too big for his mouth, his eye roving over every inch of his wizard, alive and well and speaking to him. It felt like a dream. “Let me escort you…if I could?”

“I can make it on my own,” Merlin protested. He didn’t meet Harry’s gaze, nor did he sound particularly invested in staying here. “I warned them not to bother you, Arthur—“

“I insist,” Harry said, softer this time. He rose, moving over to where Merlin sat. “Please?”

Silence stretched between them, like a chasm that had been torn open. Never before had Merlin been hard to talk to for Harry. Even in the times that they were on the outs, whether by necessity or by Harry’s full bull-headed refusal to see good common sense (and he was old enough that he could admit that a lot of their long and painful silences had been his fault), Merlin had always been there for him. The steady, calm voice in his ears.

“…all right,” Merlin said. He folded his hands in his lap as Harry wheeled him into the hall. Thankfully, the door still shut, though Harry had half a mind to make Eggsy repair it when he’d sorted this mess, too. Silently, he pushed Merlin down the hall, back toward sick bay.

“How is your physical therapy progressing?” Harry asked, fishing for anything to fill the silence. It was too bleak, too cold, not at all like the silences he was used to with Merlin. Filling the void with his voice didn’t seem to be the trick, because Merlin had his gaze focused outside.

“I thought that Whiskey was providing you with reports,” Merlin said.

“She is,” Harry said. “I’m asking you.”

Merlin swallowed, but looked down and didn’t say anything for a long moment. Harry’s long strides took them to the sickbay far too quickly for his liking, but there didn’t seem to be anything for it. Speaking the words would make them true, and Harry abhorred the idea of being right in this case. What else could it be, though? Merlin hadn’t said anything while he was trying to get his bearings back as a Kingsman, hadn’t tried to jog his memories of their time together.

Maybe he saw it as a clean slate. Harry would admit that they’d spent almost their entire time together either fighting to be with each other or fighting because they were forced to be apart. Something had to have given in, and he found that he didn’t blame Merlin if that were the case. His death would be a marker for Merlin to change, to grow beyond him.

It was only to be expected. Should Merlin have waited for him? Should his life be lonely because Harry had gone and gotten himself killed? Harry certainly didn’t think so.

He guided Merlin’s chair into the room, stopping it beside the bed.

“Do you need…?” he asked, quietly. He hated the hesitancy in his voice, the unsure words as he struggled to come to grips with a world that had moved on beyond him.

Merlin seemed to be struggling with the words, and Harry’s throat worked as he tried to swallow around the lump that was forming. He had braced himself as best he could, but he found that he was helpless in all the ways that mattered where Merlin was concerned. He was without armor, stripped defenseless in the face of hazel eyes as Merlin finally turned the chair to look up at him.

"Harry, I'm sorry I've upset you. You've every right to be angry. But you should know I wouldn't change it. I just...why didn't you just tell me you were angry?" Merlin’s voice was hoarse, as though this was scraping him raw to say it.

“Angry?” Harry asked, bewildered. His brain stutter-stepped as he tried to get onto the same track as Merlin, and then he realized. Merlin thought that he was angry about the landmine. In retrospect, he might have been furious, but fury had been long since lost in the wake of relief that Merlin was still breathing and in front of him. “Merlin, I’m not angry.”

“You aren’t?” Merlin asked. He pulled his spectacles off, rubbing at his face. There was an exhaustion in the movements, as though Merlin’s endurance had been worn completely through, like a string holding a weight that was being burnt through by a lit candle. “Then why in god’s name have you been avoiding me?”

“I thought it was only proper,” Harry said softly. “I’ve been dead for almost two years. Surely that’s more than enough time for your mourning period to have ended. I wanted to give you space.”

“Space? Whatever from?” Merlin looked up at Harry blankly.

“From us. Surely you’d moved on,” Harry said. He dragged the tattered remains of his pride around himself like a moth-eaten cloak. He kept his back straight and his voice even. “It’s only natural, I should think.”

“You think I—“ Merlin’s jaw snapped shut, and he stared at Harry with incredulity. Harry was pinned beneath Merlin’s gaze much like one of his butterflies, and he felt his chest ache as he saw Merlin blink and then rub his eyes. “Christ, Harry. Do you think so ill of me? I could never. No. God, no. I couldn’t have moved on. You don’t just move on from that.”

“I thought—“

“You thought wrong,” Merlin snapped. “Making decisions as to what’s best for me. You daft bugger. I’ve been mad for you since 1983, what makes you think I could move on from thirty-four years of loving you?”

Harry was rooted to the spot. He could feel his mouth moving, but no sound was coming out. It was like being punched in the solar plexus, being wrong in both the worst and best of ways. He was getting no air, and he brought a shaking hand to his mouth, covering it as he bowed his head.

“Harry,” Merlin’s voice was gentler now, pleading. “Harry, come here.”

Harry shook his head, squeezing his eye shut.

“Harry, for god’s sake. I don’t give a damn about moving on. What I want right now is – please just come here so I can hold you.” Merlin’s voice broke, and so did Harry.

Harry’s knees buckled, and he stumbled forward, dropping to the cold tile before Merlin’s wheelchair. The pain was temporary, dulling to a low roar as he embraced Merlin. Harry wrapped his arms around Merlin’s middle, burying his face in his shoulder as Merlin ran shaking hands through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He didn’t realize he’d been muttering it, repeating it like a mantra because he was afraid that Merlin would disappear in a flurry of multicolored wings, borne aloft like the rest of his hallucinations. He held him as tightly as he could, his hands fisted in the back of Merlin’s sweater. His eyes were damp, unable to look at Merlin.

“I know,” Merlin said, his hand splayed across the back of Harry’s neck. “It’s all right.”

“I’m so sorry,” Harry said. “I was afraid that—“

“I don’t care about that now,” Merlin said, his voice thick. “I got to hold you again and I never thought I would. That’s all that matters right now.”

“I was so sure I’d lost you. The mine detonated and I’d wished it had taken me with it, because I saw the look in your eyes right before and I remembered. I remembered and it was too late. I’m a damned idiot.” Harry swallowed, letting Merlin cup his jaw and tilt it up so he could look his wizard in the face. “I should have stayed with you when you woke. It just – I thought there was another reason that you didn’t push and I wanted to…to respect that. I should have stayed.”

“Then stay now,” Merlin said softly. Harry nodded, and Merlin wrapped his arms around him again, his fingers buried in Harry’s hair. “What’s Arthur without his Merlin, after all?”

“A boy with a broken sword and no magic in his life,” Harry replied, leaning back on his heels and sliding his hands up Merlin’s wrists to link their fingers.

“Exactly,” Merlin said, a watery smile playing across his face. “Will…you stay tonight?”

“I couldn’t sleep better away,” he said softly. “Though…when you woke up, I slept well, just knowing you were alive again.”

Merlin shook his head. He levered himself up and out of the wheelchair, onto the bed. Harry joined him without coaxing when Merlin got himself situated and then patted the blanket beside him. He slipped off his shoes and set them beside the bed before he lay back against the pillow. Merlin, usually the one draped over and not vice versa, slid against Harry’s side and pressed his ear to Harry’s chest, inhaling quietly when Harry placed his hand along the back of his neck.

This was how Merlin should have woken up, Harry mused quietly, rubbing his thumb along the back of Merlin’s neck. Glancing down, he saw that Merlin’s eyes were closed, his fingers twined in the fabric of Harry’s shirt. Harry brought his other hand up, uncurling those fingers gently and taking Merlin’s hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

They lay there for a long while, indolent in the warmth of the room, tangled in each other. Harry started petting Merlin’s neck, eliciting a pleased hum from the man nestled against his side. The sound resonated in his chest, and Harry sighed as he began to relax.

“I’m glad they named you Arthur,” Merlin said. “It will suit you.”

“I’m changing the rules,” Harry warned, his voice quiet in the settled atmosphere of the room. “And I’m doing things my way now. We have a clean slate. It’s a chance to do things right.”

“I know,” Merlin said. “I expected nothing less. When do we start?”

“Right now,” Harry said, his voice soft. “Marry me, Merlin.”

Merlin lifted his head, his gaze searching as he took in Harry’s determined expression and the grip Harry had on his left hand.

“This isn’t Turkey,” Merlin said. “You’ve nothing to distract from, Harry.”

Harry leaned in, whispered against Merlin’s ear. Merlin’s whole body shivered, the use of his real name making him twitch. “I’m not distracting from anything. Marry me. Warts and all. Keep me on the straight and narrow, be my rudder. I’ve waited thirty-four years for you and I’ll wait an eternity. If you want a broken old man, you’ve got him, on bended knee.”

“What broken old man?” Merlin asked. He turned, catching Harry’s mouth with his own. Just like the first time, it was electric, the deepest feeling resonating in his chest. Merlin’s kiss was chaste, but he nuzzled against his jaw, brushing his lips along Harry’s neck. “All I see – all I’ve ever seen – is _you_ , Harry.”

“Is that a yes?”

Merlin huffed a laugh, but his eyes were trained on Harry’s face, his expression one of quiet adoration. “It’s always been yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sorry.
> 
> Well, maybe a little.
> 
>  
> 
> _Two for flinching, Bearfeathers._
> 
>  
> 
> More Bon Dia later, I'm slowly but surely writing more. We're not starving for topics, surely.


	11. Falling Up (Post TGC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you. – Nathaniel Hawthorne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A companion to Bearfeathers's [sweet disposition](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12198105/chapters/28064850).

Merlin hadn’t thought the frame would be of any import. It had been the one personal item he’d allowed himself to take from Harry’s flat before Eggsy and his family had moved in. Feathered, pointed wings were spread out on a small pin board, with the butterfly’s name scripted beneath on a naming card in Harry’s deft, elegant hand. The same writing that was scattered across the walls of the cell. Orange wings, fading into delicate golden browns, made the butterfly seem like a welcome swatch of color in the white and pristine infirmary.

He’d stuffed it in his carry-all, the doomsday protocol meaning he didn’t know when he’d be home. He’d been forced to drop his dogs into kennel, but this? He could take this. It was the one familiar thing he could have with him, something that reminded him of home.

Now, however, he held the little butterfly in his hands, staring into the small cell where Harry Hart was documenting another rare species on the wall. He used a small paintbrush, deftly illustrating the delicate wings, dark lines that would gain color when he was through and the ink had dried. He tried not to linger, to reveal how hungry he was to just…look at Harry.

One year, seven months, seven days. He’d thought the man before him was dead, and seeing him alive and breathing had been like someone tossing a glass of icy water in his face. Merlin’s long fingers traced the small wooden frame, watching Harry add small swatches of color to delicate wings. He had no idea how to jog the man’s memory, but watching the care Harry took to breathe life into his illustrations…

It gave him an idea.

Harry turned, his smile affable yet cautious as he regarded Merlin in the doorway. “M-martin, right?”

“Merlin,” he corrected gently. The name of their fallen Percival was a dart of emotion that he carefully filed away for another time. Now, Harry needed him and he could aid the living better than the dead. “I’ve something to show you, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course,” Harry said, rising from where he’d been seated at his desk after capping his bottle of ink. “What have you got there?”

“Do you recognize this?” Merlin asked. He held out the frame and tried not to feel that same sense of hope when Harry took it, his eye lighting on the butterfly. Their hands brushed, and Merlin tried to will some sense of Harry back into himself. If only he could remember.

They both took a seat on the platform Harry used as a bed. Merlin turned to regard Harry totally, attempting to keep calm while he attempted this. Success could mean they got their Galahad back. Failure would just mean he must try something else.

“I do,” Harry said. “This is a Gatekeeper. Lovely specimen. You don’t see them often, usually in large gardens or botanical parks these days. Whoever caught this one did a good job, though he botched the wing placement a bit. I can never get it quite right, either. I’m a perfectionist—“

Harry trailed off, staring at the frame. His head tilted, like a dog who hadn’t pinpointed the source of an unfamiliar sound, his brows drawn down in confusion.

“That’s my handwriting, however,” he said. He pressed a finger to the frame, just beneath the card that read _Gatekeeper – Pyronia Tithonus Britanniae._ “Funny. I don’t remember catching this one.”

“I do,” Merlin said softly. Harry looked up at him, the struggle to remember pinching his eye at the corner. “You almost broke my nose with your net. You caught my spectacles, gave me a black eye, and knocked me to the ground.”

“Oh,” Harry breathed. “I’m terribly sorry, I –“

“It’s all right,” Merlin assured him. He reached out and patted Harry gently on the shoulder. “It was the first time we’d met. You got my spectacles repaired, and it was no harm done.”

“Well, that’s good to know. It explains why you know so much about me, too. We must have been good friends,” he said. Merlin struggled not to lose his mind in that second. How could he quantify that as an answer?

“Yes,” he managed. “You have been my colleague for almost forty years.”

“A shame I can’t remember,” Harry said, almost sadly. He brightened. “But this shows that I am who I think I am! I must have been an _excellent_ lepidopterist.”

“Hobby, yes,” Merlin said. “You job was…how much have they told you?”

“Not a lot,” Harry admitted, rubbing briefly at the patch that covered the ruins of his eye. “But with so many people who want me to remember, maybe that’s a good thing.”

Merlin tilted his head in a nod. “Perhaps.”

He wiped his hands on the knees of his trousers and stood, frowning. Maybe something else. Something…traumatic. He hated for Ginger Ale to be right in this case – the last thing he wanted to do would be to scare or damage Harry further. He couldn’t bear it.

He was halfway to the door before he realized that Harry had followed him. Turning, he smiled, and Harry held out the frame to him.

“You’ve forgotten this,” Harry said.

“I should think it better kept with you,” Merlin said, clearing his throat. “After all, it’s yours.”

* * *

“I’ve something for you, Merlin,” Harry said. Merlin looked up from his seat by the window, where he was enjoying the nip in the air after a long day of physical therapy. His dogs were currently being babied by Tequila out on the grounds, and Merlin was looking after them like a mother hen as best he could.

Harry watched Tequila get bowled over when he held up the ball for Artemis and Apollo, the Dobermans taking him out at the knees. Merlin snorted, the amusement in his eyes not dulled by the frustration that he couldn’t exercise his animals the way he’d like. Tequila had been a blessing in disguise; Harry had tapped him because he seemed the sort used to roughhousing with animals of all sorts, and he was pleased to see he was right.

Artemis, the crafty girl, had already stolen Tequila’s hat. He gave an indignant shout and then they were off, the Doberman running hell-for-leather across the grounds with Tequila in hot pursuit.

Merlin turned his attention back to Harry. He never hoped he got used to the feeling he got when Merlin looked at him. It always felt like the first time. The swoop in his stomach was real, the warmth was there, too.

“Is it you?” Merlin asked softly. Harry’s lips kicked up in a smile as he bent at the waist, dropping a kiss onto his wizard’s cheekbone. “Because I like that gift.”

“Not quite,” Harry said. He placed the wooden picture frame in Merlin’s hands, the little butterfly still intact despite the water test in Harry’s cell. He suspected that Merlin had snuck in the day before and filched it, only replacing it when they had concluded the test. Still, he let his suspicions go unvoiced as he watched Merlin trail his fingers across the little wooden frame.

“Why not keep it?” Merlin asked.

“Because I kept it to remind me of why I was doing this,” he said. He let his fingers rest gently on the back of Merlin’s neck, their need for secrecy finally over after so many years of keeping themselves in the dark. “I kept it because I felt like the meeting was portentous. I was introduced to Callum Craig, promptly attempted to break his nose, and smashed his spectacles, and he still looked at me like the sun rose and set on my whims.”

“You’re full of shite,” Merlin said, barking a laugh. His ears were red, however. “It took me until Barcelona to even really consider that an option. And it’s not true. Sun hardly rises and sets with you, but it doesn’t mean I don’t like watching them with you.”

Harry hummed, taking a seat beside Merlin.

“Would you like to know why I think it’s better in your care?” Harry asked. He looked out the window, feeling Merlin roll his wheelchair closer beside the seat he’d taken and warm fingers reach out to take his hand. “Because for some reason, no matter where I am or what I’m doing, that butterfly leads me back to you.”

Merlin said nothing, though Harry glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. He was looking down at the butterfly in the frame, his eyes roving over the orange and golden brown of its wings, unsullied by time in its glass case.

“Do you remember what I told you, before? When we first met. About the monarchs veering in their migration pattern to avoid a mountain that wasn’t there anymore?”

“Yes,” Merlin said, stroking Harry’s thumb with his own.

“I felt that pull,” Harry said. “Even when I couldn’t remember anything else, I could have sworn I remembered you. Even instinctually, I knew that I should like to remember you.”

“I tried so hard to not be overeager to make you remember,” Merlin said softly. “I didn’t want to cause you pain.”

“And you did beautifully under the circumstances,” Harry said. “You were, and are, and always have been _fucking spectacular_.”

Merlin reddened, looking away from Harry’s wide, besotted smile. “I’m going to wallop that boy.”

“You’re not,” Harry said.

Merlin only grumbled something vaguely uncomplimentary before Harry leaned in, pressing his lips gently to his wizard’s. Merlin subsided, tilting his head into Harry’s kiss. Harry drank his fill, and by the time he’d pulled back, Merlin was soft-eyed and pliant, his fingers laced with Harry’s and his breathing delightfully ragged.

It might not have been the first time he’d ever kissed Merlin, but it was certainly not going to be the last. Harry was going to make sure of it.

Memories might be fleeting, but he wanted as many as he could get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might notice chapters moving about. This is normal, as I endeavor to keep things as chronologically sound as I can. This way you can go back and reread everything linearly, all at once. Well, except for the asterisk posts (and the fic-that-shall-not-be-named because holy shit people yelled at me for that one LMAO). Asterisk posts will likely remain at the end of the work, so that you can peruse them at your leisure, unless I think of something else that won't interrupt the narrative flow of the work as a whole.
> 
> That said, I needed something vaguely fluffy because cranking out that pain really killed my soul a bit.


	12. White Lies (Post TGC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roxanne isn't sure what to make of the new status quo.

“It’s always a Spencer,” Harry grumbled from beyond the door. Roxy stopped, holding the tea tray in her hands as she paused to listen. Perhaps it was rude, but then…she was a spy. If he wanted something kept secret, he’d have closed the door and spoken to Merlin in private.

Their new Arthur was a bit of an intimidating enigma to Roxy. She had met Harry Hart many times throughout her life, though the first times she had been very small, and barely remembered him. The next time, he had been standing with her Uncle Martin at James’s funeral. He’d seemed even more reserved and unapproachable then, a wall of masculine silence that she realized now must have been irrepressible grief manifested in the only way that Harry knew how. Before Harry’s almost death at the hands of Richmond Valentine, he had projected that same aura of aloof disinterest during her trial.

However, he had surprised her by stopping her in the hall before he’d left for Kentucky. His words of congratulation were brief, but the reassuring squeeze to her hand as they’d shaken had been a confirmation to her that he’d meant them.

Eggsy held him in such high esteem, it was a wonder Roxy could even see Harry Hart from the pedestal that Galahad viewed him from. Still, there was something very human about Harry, a wealth of knowledge and cunning locked behind brown eyes and a classically handsome face. She thought, back then, that she might have liked to get to know him better, as well as could be expected of people in their respective positions.

His passing had been violent, a reflection of the life he’d lived in secret. There but for the grace of God went she, Roxy knew. His return had been just as violent, Eggsy’s retelling of the events no doubt embellished, but at the same time reminding her that miracles still existed. Like being high above the atmosphere, strapped to two balloons with nothing more than a targeting computer and a prayer.

It felt a lot like the swoop in her stomach, just before falling. She wondered if the older Knights ever felt the same.

Even now, she hesitated to call them her peers, even though that was precisely what they were. Her Uncle Martin was just that—tireless, inexorable Percival, like a dog to the hunt when something needed doing. He had nearly three decades of experience as a Kingsman on her. To call him her peer was as foolish as calling Harry a peer. She had much to learn, and she was thankful that they were still around to teach her. Even her Uncle James, related by blood, was a wealth of knowledge and experience, though he was at best semi-retired at the moment.

She firmly and almost angrily pushed aside the voice that whispered _‘if Martin survives, if James lives beyond his passing’_. Her life had no place for ‘what if’ anymore. All she had time for were facts. The fact was, Martin was asleep down the hall, James finally sleeping at his side. They were as comfortable as they could be, with both Morgana and Whiskey to look after them, and she could do nothing about Martin’s recovery now. That insidious voice would get her killed, and she returned her thoughts to the man seated with Merlin beyond the door.

Harry was no longer a peer. He was again her superior, their spymaster. Arthur.

She had to admit, he lent much more gravitas to the role than perhaps Chester King did. Maybe that was her remembrance of the events leading up to V-Day, however. Harry commanded much more respect with his mere presence, asking where an order might have been given by a lesser man.

He’d asked to see her, and so here she was, dithering out in the hallway like a ninny because she’d heard him complaining.

Granted, she’d had reason to pause. Spencer was her mother’s maiden name. Amanda Morton, née Spencer, she was James’s twin sister. It was quite likely that Harry was referring to their connection, by referring to them as Spencers.

She didn’t think that she enjoyed the emphasis on the name in his tone, however. She returned her attention to the conversation at hand.

“Well, it’s to be expected,” Merlin replied, chuckling. She could hear the creak of leather as he shifted in his wheelchair. “You’re missing an eye, and you’re still getting used to my targeting computer.”

“And yet, every time I set foot on the range, it’s a Spencer that blasts me out of the water. I had no such excuse for James, did I, when he outscored me in small arms? Now there’s this slip of a girl who wields a sniper rifle like it’s another limb.” Harry’s tone was hushed, but querulous, as though he were disgruntled to find that the world had moved on and left him behind. “A damned disgrace is what it is.”

Roxy couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face. To hear Harry—to hear _Arthur—_ praise her skill, it was a shot directly to the ego, regardless of how grumpy he was about it. She’d had to work twice as hard to get where she was, often with little praise; Martin had been hard on her, for that very reason. Merlin even more so, though he’d handed out praise when he felt it was deserved. And oh, that was a sweet feeling.

But this? Complete and utter rush.

She composed herself, knocking gently on the door jamb. There was a moment of silence; she knew they were wondering how much she’d heard.

“Enter,” Harry called.

She pushed open the door to find the two of them seated close to one another in the study that Harry had claimed as his own for now, until they could relocate to Scotland. They bore an almost guilty look about them, and Merlin had a hand upon his wheelchair’s controls, as though to move them apart. He didn’t, though.

This thing between their Arthur and Merlin was older than she’d been alive, and she certainly wasn’t about to tell her superiors how to conduct themselves. Hell, she doubted they’d even listen if she tried. Besides, she had no intention of naysaying it; they were happy. She was happy for them. After years of forced secrecy, Harry was now in a position to change the rules and make his own.

Roxy merely set the tea tray down on the desk before them, unloading their mugs and retrieving her own.

The study was done in rich, pale woods, with a fire crackling merrily in the grate to her right. Statesman favored a lot of wood the color of their whiskey, and she couldn’t say she blamed them. Dark leather and the smell of books pervaded, and while it lacked the ancient feeling of Savile Road, there was a definite kinship in Statesman’s decorating choices.

She took a seat in the chair Harry indicated, across the desk from him and Merlin.

“Apologies for being late, Arthur,” she said softly.

The smile he bore was wry. “I think it can be forgiven in this instance. We’re all out of sorts while we transition to our new home.”

She nodded, knowing that he meant the term _home_. For Harry, Kingsman was a lifestyle. For many of the Knights, it remained the only home available to them. While James had his sister and Roxy, Eggsy was the only Knight she knew who intended on growing and expanding his family by marrying. It reminded her of her promise to herself, to go and see Martin’s parents.

But that was for another time. Now, she merely sipped her tea, watching as Harry deliberately stirred a single spoonful of sugar and a splash of milk into his tea. He took a sip, his eye closing briefly in contented satisfaction before he continued. Like a large cat, almost, and she got that same predatory feeling when he opened his eye to look at her, pinning her with a serious gaze.

“I have a favor to ask,” Harry said.

“Sir?” she asked. A favor usually meant that no order was implied, that this would be beneficial to him simply because she did it for him. That he would owe her a favor in return. She wasn’t used to this sort of exchange of power; she wondered what it meant for his reign as spymaster.

“I know that you’ve just gained your title,” Harry continued. “But we’ve been given a…singular opportunity by our American cousins. Tequila and Whiskey will be joining us for a time as we recruit and train for Kingsman.”

Roxy considered this. It meant one of two things: the agents in question were being tested, or Kingsman itself was being tested. It might be nothing more than checking to see that their agents would do well in the field, putting them through a foreign trial, but at the same time—

Harry was watching her, searching her face with his remaining eye. Roxy felt a little like she was being dissected, but she nodded.

“I would like your help. You are a stellar Knight. I have been hearing reports from Merlin about your progress, and I want you to be the one to introduce Whiskey to field work. You have an aptitude for combat at a disadvantage, due to your stature, and it’s something I think that Whiskey would benefit from.” Harry smoothed his features, continuing. “You also have the unique viewpoint of being our only female Knight. If anyone could use your perspective, it is the former Ginger Ale.”

This was also true, Roxy thought. While there was another female Statesman, she had only met Gin briefly before the imposing woman had adjourned back to Wall Street to monitor sales and their various ad campaigns. Her partner Tonic had also been friendly, but distant, making his excuses quickly to return to Gin’s side. Perhaps it was the nature of their work, or perhaps it was the fact that the Americas were so damnably big that they needed two intelligence agencies to keep track of everything. Regardless, Whiskey would need that training, no matter how long she’d been supervising Statesman’s agents from behind the front lines.

“Of course, sir,” she said. “When do we start?”

“As soon as Mar— _Percival_ is well enough to travel,” Merlin said, correcting himself. Roxy could hardly blame him; their wizard was on a killer cocktail of pain medicine when his condition got to be too much to bear. For now, though, he was clear-eyed and nodded at her seriously. “We’ve enough to worry about without subjecting him to the additional stress of airlifting him a second time.”

Good. That left her plenty of time to get that personal errand out of the way. It would all work itself out nicely, in her opinion. She nodded, straightening her shoulders.

“May I request personal time until then?” she asked. Merlin lifted his brows, surprised. Harry merely waited. “I’d like to check in with my mother, reassure her that I’m all right.”

Merlin and Harry exchanged a look. There was a hesitation, almost as if they didn’t believe her, but then Harry nodded once.

“Of course,” he said. “After losing your uncle, I can see why that would be a concern to you.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, offering him a relieved smile. She had a feeling if she brought up Martin’s parents with them, she would receive a similar reaction that James had—namely censure. He’d flat out forbidden that she go, but she at least owed it to her Uncle Martin to try.

Harry’s lips kicked up at the corners. “Were there any concerns?”

“No, sir,” she said. “Whiskey has been an agent of Statesman, and has trained several recruits. It’s just a matter of putting a practical application to all of her training. She’s well suited to field work, reading the reports of Cambodia.”

They nodded, approving of her assessment.

“Good,” Harry said. “I look forward to your progress. Until then, spend some time with your mother. You have more than earned your rest, and we will stand vigil with Percival until your return.”

Roxy felt a mixture of gratitude and guilt wash over her like brackish water. Did Harry perhaps know her true intentions? Was he that good of a Knight that he was almost supernatural and could anticipate her plans?

Maybe Eggsy hadn’t been full of bluster.

“Thank you, sir,” she said. She rose, taking her mug with her. She’d left the tray of sandwiches there for a reason, to encourage both her workaholic superiors to eat and take a break. Maybe it was too subtle a hint, she thought, catching sight of Harry moving the tray aside as she shut the door behind her.

Still, she had the opening she needed to see the Gainsboroughs. That was what she’d wanted. She decided to take her points while she’d earned them and do what needed to be done.

* * *

“A Spencer through and through,” Harry said, once his spectacles had assured him that Roxy was out of earshot. He clicked the button to turn off the scan function, tapping the side of his glasses. His smile was more than fond, however.

“Of course she is,” Merlin said, chuckling as he finally made for one of the sandwiches she’d brought them. He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Did you see her smile when you were complaining about her scores?”

“How could I have missed it? Broad enough to slap off her face, she’s definitely kin to James,” Harry said. He laughed quietly, a rumble in his chest as he retrieved a sandwich for himself. “But she carries herself much like Martin did at first. You remember?”

“Aye,” Merlin said. “It’s amazing how history repeats itself.”

“True,” Harry said, letting his stomach dictate the conversation for just a little while. He hadn’t eaten nearly enough today, and Roxy’s thoughtfulness was her own, something that he intended to nurture in their new Lancelot.

“Martin made the correct choice, sponsoring her,” Harry remarked after a moment.

“He thought so,” Merlin said.

Harry nodded. Their currently comatose Percival had steadfast reasons for keeping the title in the Spencer family, not the least of which being that Roxanne Morton was capable, mature, and well-suited for the role.

He’d thought as much, even when she’d beaten out Eggsy for the title.

“I can hear you thinking too hard over there,” Merlin said, reaching out and taking Harry’s hand. Harry rubbed his thumb over Merlin’s knuckles for a moment before he brought his partner’s hand to his lips gently, an admission that he was.

“We aren’t dead in the water,” Harry replied. “I was just thinking that with the new blood we have in Eggsy and Roxanne, we’ve lucked out more than we might have otherwise.”

“I’ve thought the same,” Merlin said. “I trained those two, and it’s no surprise that they made it out.”

There was a large chunk of pride in Merlin’s tone, and Harry agreed. His wizard was nothing if not a marvel at molding recruits.

“We’ll need that same training soon,” he reminded Merlin. “Once we have Scotland fortified, we begin the selection process.”

“Mm,” Merlin said. He gave Harry’s hand a squeeze. “You let me worry about training them. You just cull the wheat from the chaff.”

“Of course, Dove.” Harry smiled.

His thoughts returned to Roxanne, likely on a plane already bound for the parts of England that the Gainsboroughs called home. While he couldn’t discourage her, he was still concerned. She had yet to air all of Martin’s dirty laundry regarding his family, and it would only end up being painful for her. Perhaps it was a lesson that she needed to learn for herself.

He had no doubt she meant well, but Martin’s family had never been one for sentiment, much like his own. The fact that James had mentioned that she brought it up a few nights ago made this convenient timing. She had never mentioned her mother until now, in this abrupt aside. Harry had no doubt that she and Amanda Morton kept well in touch with their regular mobile calls.

He wondered, briefly, if she realized that her love for her family, her uncles and for Eggsy, as well as for Merlin, made her a particularly easy read.

Perhaps, one day, she might figure it out. Until then, all he could do was encourage her to keep loving them, to the best of her ability.

The new Kingsman would need that sort of devotion to thrive, and Roxy was a welcome change to their previously held status quo.

He looked forward to working with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is not near enough Roxy in this fic. I decided to change that. I hope that you're all enjoying. I've been working on getting more and more turned out, and managed three chapters this week, two here and one for Bon Dia. I call that productive!
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are appreciated! Thank you for all your support, Constant Readers!


	13. Intimacy (Post TGC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has never shied away from Merlin’s embrace before Cambodia.

Harry has never shied away from Merlin’s embrace before Cambodia.

Things have changed—and yet some things remain the same, both men pressed against each other in their shared quarters, stealing time where they can get it while Kingsman licks its wounds. Their mouths are soft when they meet, tongues tangling as hands roam, relearning planes and angles, tracing scars old and new. It’s not until Merlin moves, shifting to press himself into Harry’s lap, that he balks.

Merlin, as ever, can sense Harry’s mood almost before he himself can, and he breaks away, eyes large and dark in the low lights of their quarters.

“What is it?” he asks, his voice low and husky, the tone of it sending the same shiver down Harry’s spine that it did almost forty years ago. It pools heat low in his belly and groin, igniting that hunger he feels when Merlin’s this close, in his arms. It’s a hunger that he knows Merlin echoes, sharp and thin, slicing them down to the bone where they join together as partners. It cuts away their layers and reveals them as nothing more but men, but men who have become more suited for each other than either would have admitted to anyone out loud less than a decade ago. Now, the rules have changed.

Arthur is nothing without his Merlin, and Harry is nothing without Callum. He knows this, and that’s why guilt rises in the back of his throat, bile coating his tongue as he pulls gently away. He cups Merlin’s face instead, pressing his forehead against his partner’s, breathing coming soft and quick as he composes himself.

“We shouldn’t,” he says softly.

There are a myriad of reasons why, they all lay heavy on his tongue like a stone, but as he opens his remaining eye and sees the concern melting into understanding on Merlin’s face, he can’t help but feel like it was the incorrect response to this. They’re both recovering, Harry’s return to Kingsman in the wake of the trauma from Valentine, Merlin just recently being cleared from the infirmary to head out into the field in a non-combat capacity. They’re both…hurting. Hurting, but alive, and together.

Merlin is alive and drawing breath beneath his hands, and Harry is struck by the memory of lying on the sun-warmed concrete in that parking lot in Kentucky, looking up at the skewed roof of the church as his vision hazed out and away from him that he would never feel that again.

Now he has it, and it’s crumbling, sifting through his fingers like sand.

They’re starting again, something new planted in the ashes of the old, growing delicate and green under both their hands. Harry has always ever been the bull in the china shop, both where his own feelings and Merlin’s are concerned, and he feels he’s crushed the lot as Merlin gives a soft sigh and a resigned nod, as though this answered a question he’d never posed but expected Harry to answer regardless.

“If you’re sure, Harry,” Merlin says, making to pull away, but Harry holds him fast, the tremble in his hands something new. He’s shaken while touching his partner before, either in worry or relief, but this nameless dread gnaws at the pit of his stomach and leaves him feeling icy cold.

“I just—” He stops himself, mouth working silently as he tries to articulate this feeling. He’s still getting snippets of memories back, both with Merlin’s help and on his own, and yet he still feels…less. Merlin has agreed to marry him, has agreed to hearth and home and to raise his ‘bloody boy’ (though Eggsy is far more mature and ready for this world than Harry feels he himself is at times). This should not be a wall between them, but the words are like stones and they will fall into place and isolate him if he lets them.

Harry doesn’t intend to let them.

“Merlin,” he says, his voice husky and raw, like he’s shredded himself open on the mere thought of talking about this. “This isn’t about you.”

“Is it not?” Merlin asks, a tinge of bitterness in his voice as his hands drop from where they were tangled in Harry’s shirt, to where the scarred stumps of his legs just past his knees are neatly concealed in his tailored trouser legs. He bites his lip, looking down and away.

“It isn’t,” Harry insists. He reaches for Merlin’s hand, taking it and pressing his lips reverently to Merlin’s palm, his lips tracing his wizard’s love line before he presses it to his cheek. His eye falls closed and he shudders, that heat still gnawing at him, that hunger encompassing him like faerie fire. “I want you more than I ever have.”

“Then what has you in knots?” Merlin asks, his other hand coming up and lifting Harry’s chin, forcing him to meet Merlin’s hazel eyes, brows drawn down low in concern. “Are you in pain?”

“No,” Harry rasps. “Not physically.”

He leans into Merlin’s touch, feeling the tips of Merlin’s elegant fingers sliding into his soft salt and pepper curls. It’s only when he can feel Merlin’s right hand pressing close to the scar of the exit wound at the back of his skull does Harry balk again, drawing carefully just out of reach.

Understanding finally lights in Merlin’s hazel eyes, and he moves forward, into Harry’s space, their breath mingling as Merlin slowly slants his mouth over Harry’s. Harry’s eye slips closed, hands sliding down to settle on Merlin’s waist.

“Did you think I wouldn’t want you?” Merlin breathes against his lips. Harry gives a shaky nod, something that turns into a gasp as Merlin levers himself into Harry’s lap and plants himself across Harry’s thighs. He has him pinned now, and both of them know it—Harry won’t move Merlin, and Merlin won’t move unless he’s inclined to go.

“I can’t remember everything,” Harry mumbles, his fingers toying with the hem of Merlin’s jumper. Merlin’s weight is solid against him, though, something real and warm and alive, and Harry can’t deny that Merlin has brought him to the ground more than once in this way, sinking him into sensation until he surfaces on the other side—maybe not whole, but back to reality.

“Don’t force it,” Merlin says, his fingers tracing gently just beneath where the stems of Harry’s spectacles rest against his ears. “Let me see you?”

“You…” The words fail him again. Merlin has seen, however briefly, the ruins of his eye socket, ravaged by Valentine’s bullet. Harry can’t make him stop reliving that scene, as helpless to stop it as he is to stop his own nightmares of the church.

“Harry,” Merlin says. The gravitas of his voice, the somber note, makes Harry look up. Merlin’s eyes are clouded with grief, his own fears having risen to the surface this way. “You should know…”

Merlin swallows, but Harry nods, encouraging him. He’s trapped in the center of a maelstrom, guilt and want and fear swirling around him, and Merlin is the lifeline that he’s clinging to with bloody fingertips. If he moves, he’ll be swept away.

“This doesn’t have to be something we do anymore,” Merlin says softly. “We don’t have to be intimate if it’s not something you want.”

“It’s not that,” Harry says. “I want this, with you. Merlin, I have never not wanted you, body and soul. I’m just…”

The words _old_ and _broken_ and _out of date_ spring to his lips, but he can’t voice them.

“I’m afraid,” Harry says. The words are so quiet, he wonders if he’s even said them. “Afraid that you won’t want me the same way anymore.”

Merlin squirms until he’s flush against Harry’s hips, prompting a gasp from his Arthur’s lips, sharp in the quiet that’s descended between them.

“I’m afraid, too,” Merlin breathes against his mouth, his lips pressing sweetly to Harry’s. Harry can’t help but respond, sliding his hands up Merlin’s back to hold his partner against his chest, clinging to him like a lifeline. “Afraid you’ll see me and think me too broken to go on. That this is—that it’s ugly.”

“Never,” Harry declares, righteous indignation burning away the fear like the sun through fog. “I want you, Merlin. Can’t you feel—”

“Exactly,” Merlin growls, rolling his hips down. Harry feels himself responding, a groan torn from him as Merlin finds the sweetest friction and presses his mouth against Harry’s again. “I want you, Harry.”

Harry’s helpless in the face of his partner’s fierce desire, the claiming of his mouth leaving him breathless as he feels Merlin pull his spectacles from his face. He turns his head, only for Merlin’s strong, elegant hand to seize his jaw, forcing him to turn back, hazel eyes piercing him to his core. He’s laid bare before Merlin’s gaze, the mess of scar tissue around his ruined eye socket burning like a brand as he swallows against the grip that Merlin has against his jaw.

“You’ve always been too pretty for your own good,” Merlin husks, leaning in and pressing his lips reverently to Harry’s left eye. “That’s never changed, Harry.”

Harry shudders. He can feel the sting of wetness, tears streaming from his right eye, but it doesn’t seem to matter now, not in the face of Merlin’s sincere regard. He surges forward, catching his wizard in a hot, needy kiss, his tongue sliding along Merlin’s in what can only be described as filthy desperation. Merlin responds in kind, moaning against Harry’s mouth, and Harry swallows it as tribute, breaking away only to shuck Merlin’s jumper and the t-shirt he wears beneath from his wizard’s strong frame.

He breathes out a whine as he feels Merlin’s shoulder muscles jump beneath his fingers as he traces planes of skin he barely remembers, it’s been so long. His shirt is seized, and Merlin rips several buttons free as he tears at Harry’s clothing. They’ve both been holding in this hurt for so long, there’s a penance in their haste as Harry stands, Merlin clinging to him with arms around his neck. It’s only to kick off his shoes and trousers, the motion quick and far too inelegant to call it practiced, but he seats himself back on the edge of the bed, mouth finding one of Merlin’s nipples as the wizard’s hand finds purchase in his hair.

Harry doesn’t hesitate this time as he feels Merlin’s fingers trace the scar on the back of his skull. He nips, scraping his teeth against Merlin and feels him arch in response, a growl echoing between them. He can hardly tell which one of them it was, and it feels…good.

He feels complete in a way he hasn’t since before Kentucky, since before Cambodia, since before the world went to shit and took Kingsman with it, and he’s shucked his shirt, his a-shirt beneath rucked up so Merlin can press his palms against Harry’s heated chest. Harry sighs into Merlin’s mouth again, tugging Merlin’s trousers down and off, tossing them to the floor to join the rest of their clothing as he slides his hands into the waistband of Merlin’s boxer briefs.

Merlin shudders against him, hard and slick and he can feel the throb against his palm as he cups his wizard, stroking him inelegantly. Merlin rocks against him and the heat in his belly ignites again, prompting Harry to reach for the bottle of slick he’d set on the side table earlier today, in the hopes that this might heal them both.

In a way, it has, though the thought is far from Harry’s mind as he slicks Merlin, holding him braced against his chest as Merlin moans softly with the press of his fingers. There are so, so many things that need to be discussed, but all of it seems so small as his wizard kisses him with a desperation that is echoed in the fluid motion of Harry’s wrist. He sinks another finger into Merlin, breathing heavily against his lips, swallowing the moans and letting Merlin have his own as penance.

Merlin presses Harry back, lining them up, using Harry’s hands as a brace as he guides Harry into himself. Harry almost sobs at the heat and tightness enveloping him as he slides up and inside Merlin. Slowly, he sits up, bringing Merlin flush against himself. Merlin’s mouth is slack, concentration making him numb to everything else as Harry gives an experimental roll of his hips.

Merlin’s choked moan awakens the primal in Harry, and he uses his hands beneath the Scot’s muscular thighs to help him lift, to rise up off Harry’s lap, only to bring him back down. He rolls his hips in time, making Merlin’s hands grip the base of his neck as he helps his partner ride him.

“Merlin,” Harry grates, pressing his lips to the sweat-slick wizard’s chest. “I need you.”

“Don’t stop,” Merlin replies, a hand fisting in the hair at the base of his skull. “I need you, too.”

They’ve set a rhythm that leaves them breathless, words becoming useless in the thread between them winding tight. Harry’s hand skims Merlin’s cock, thumb tracing the bead of pre and swirling it around, making Merlin shiver as he rocks against Harry, squeezing as Harry begins to stroke him.

They don’t last long, though Harry would be surprised if they did. It’s been so long, and they’ve been wound so tight, that it’s a wonder they lasted to this point. Merlin squeezes down on him, pulsing warm and wet against his fingers. Harry can’t help the moan that escapes him as Merlin catches him by surprise, thrusting up and into that welcoming heat until Merlin’s twitching brings him over the edge as well.

For a long moment, neither speaks, Harry resting his head against Merlin’s shoulder, the wizard resting his cheek against Harry’s hair. Harry lets out a small, satisfied sigh, and Merlin chuckles. It’s a wry noise, given their compromising position, but Harry knows that it’s also well-meant. He lifts his head, finding Merlin watching him, adoration clear in his gaze.

“I love you,” Harry says, rusty and hoarse though his voice is, he knows it to be true.

“And I you,” Merlin says in return. “I always have.”

“We’ve made a mess,” Harry says, pressing the gentlest of kisses against Merlin’s shoulder.

“Aye,” Merlin sighs softly. “But we’re also good at cleaning them up.”

“We are,” Harry replies. His hands slide reverently along the length of Merlin’s legs, kneading at him as he basks in the fading hormones. Merlin hums, nipping at his ear.

“You…really don’t mind,” Merlin says, his voice full of wonder. Harry knows he wasn’t the only one with misgivings, but hearing Merlin say it…

“You’re in my arms, and breathing,” Harry says. “Whatever comes, so long as I have that—have you—I will forever consider myself the luckiest man alive.”

“ _Tu es l'amour de ma vie_ ,” Merlin breathes against his ear, the French halting and clumsy, but Harry merely takes Merlin’s hand, pressing his lips against the bare digit of his left hand’s ring finger. These are words that have been spoken between them, many times. Harry can only hope he lives to speak them many more. From Barcelona to London to Kentucky to Cambodia, they’ve survived. They’ve endured.

They’ve never given up on the other.

Harry doesn’t intend to start now.

“And you, mine,” Harry replies. “For as long as I draw breath.”

Thus it has always been, for the both of them. Harry knows that there is more work to be done, more healing to endure, more closure. But for now, with this reassurance, with Merlin here and languidly stroking his hair, he can begin again.

It is enough.

It is always enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That was therapeutic. I've been hemming and hawing about writing intimacy between the two of them, simply because I wanted to treat it respectfully? If I haven't managed that, please let me know, so I can do better. It's not something I'm familiar with, and while I've been reading, I fear it might not be enough.
> 
> More In Bloom soon, Constant Readers. I hope you enjoy.


	14. Dichotomy (Post TGC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __
> 
>  
> 
> __
>     
>     
>         _Maybe there's a God above
>     All I've ever learned from love
>     Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you
>     And it's not a cry that you hear at night
>     It's not somebody who's seen the light
>     It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah_
>       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to [Matrimony](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3812251/chapters/8813347) from my own _I Lost My Heart to a Man with a Smoking Gun_ and the sequel by Bearfeathers: [Hearts Like Ours](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12198105/chapters/28353300) from _Heavy as a History Book Can Be_.

“I take it you found what I asked for,” Merlin said, admitting Eggsy. While not as opulent as a normal Kingsman property, it was serviceable for the clandestine meeting, and it would keep Harry out of his hair—metaphorically speaking—while Merlin got this errand done.

The flats were a series of unused buildings, held in reserve for new Knights or other personnel that warranted privacy. The flat on the end that Merlin was inspecting was furnished very blandly, as were the others; it would take someone living there longer than a few months to inject any sort of personality into the place, and Merlin didn’t have either the time or the inclination to decorate. Still, what furniture was about the place was tasteful and well-put together, and surprisingly modern. It would suit an interim guest.

The entire row was in Chester King’s name, and Merlin was in the process of getting the deeds switched over to the Kingsman’s new corporation. Chester had no family now, after all – his closest relations had been the ill-fated Hesketh clan, the last of which died out in the Cambodian jungle. Besides, Merlin felt that their former Arthur owed Kingsman something after what he’d put them through.

Their current Arthur was at present conducting research and background checks on one Mickey Gainsborough, Martin’s alleged younger brother. While Merlin had no doubts that the two were related, given their similar upbringing and attitudes, Harry was still going to be hard-nosed about this. While Merlin didn’t blame him, it was still a little exasperating. Harry had gone completely overboard with his protective streak; it was a wonder that Merlin had gotten anything done today.

But for now, Harry was involved in meetings with their investigations department, and that left Merlin free to pursue the one thing he wanted to get done while he was still in London. He motioned Eggsy in, glad he had the sense to part with his troupe of companions for this errand.

“Of course,” Eggsy said, hefting the case. It was sealed with a thumbprint scanner as well as hermetically balanced so that the contents didn’t decay, and it was clearly a strain for the lad to lift it. Merlin nodded to the table, and Eggsy placed the case carefully on the polished wood. “What’s in it?”

Merlin reached out and patted the brushed steel of the case. “Memories. Important ones.”

“You take that stuff serious, bruv,” Eggsy said. He looked impressed, however, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Can I see?”

“Perhaps another time, lad,” Merlin said. He gave Eggsy a knowing look. “Considering you left the other three parked down the street, I doubt you have time for a trip through an old man’s nostalgia.”

Eggsy frowned. “How’d you—”

“How do I know anything, Eggsy?” Merlin asked patiently. He tapped the side of his spectacles. “Off with you now. I’m almost done here.”

“You need any help?” he asked.

“No, I’ve almost finished my inspection, and thankfully these flats are accessible,” Merlin replied. “I’ll be ready to go when everyone else is. You should probably introduce Lamb and Tequila to what London has to offer before they have to return to the States.”

Eggsy grinned slyly. “Does this mean we’re on leave?”

“You were before,” Merlin said. “Go and take advantage of it.”

Once Eggsy was gone, calling his goodbyes, Merlin threw the bolts and wheeled himself over to the case on the table. He hadn’t seen it in two years, when he’d locked it away in the hopes that the contents would be less painful, regarding the circumstances. Now, he ran long fingers over the brushed metal, letting his hand splay over the case.

It was about two feet wide and three feet deep, with handles on each side. The Kingsman logo was emblazoned on the front, but in reality, the whole thing was Merlin’s. Nothing inside the box had ever been dared to be shown at Central, save for a few things he put in there before he consigned the box to the bank to be held. It was meant to be destroyed upon certain circumstances, but now, he was glad that he could see it again.

He needed something inside, after all.

Gingerly, he pressed his thumbs to the scanner, letting the dual fingerprint readers do their work. They beeped, once, and he removed his thumbs, only to punch in a keyed code on the panel that revealed itself. He bent towards the case and allowed it to scan his retina, then sat back.

With a pneumatic hiss, the lid opened, revealing another cover, which Merlin opened as well. He brought the case down into his lap so he could see to sort things better. Out came the box of old negatives that sat on the top of everything, set aside so that he could dig through the case. One by one, he lined up all of his memories and placed them on the table, sparing each a lingering touch or gaze as he did.

While he didn’t consider himself sentimental, there were few things as important to Merlin as this case. As most of the contents were retrieved, Merlin let his mind wander back to the times he’d collected them. A box of photographs caught his eye, and he smiled.

He had copies of the photo on top in his flat, displayed on the wall in the hallway leading to his bedroom, but the original was well-worn from handling. A muddy Harry and himself sat, arms slung around each other after a rugby game. They were both grinning fit to split and were sitting too close to be mistaken for anything than two halves of a whole. It really was a wonder that everyone didn’t put the pieces together, but then, they’d gotten more careful with age, when discretion meant survival.

He rubbed the corner of the photograph with his thumb and replaced it with the others, covering another shot of the same time, where Harry was looking at him with such a besotted look it was almost painful. Perhaps if they’d lived another life, that could have been their reality constantly.

Perhaps not. Merlin wasn’t one to question it, not when he was settling into how things had finally changed for the better. To be able to sit with Harry, outside in broad daylight, and just…be. Hand in hand after thirty years of being clandestine and breathing it like it was the most precious secret.

Considering the contents of the case and the lengths he’d gone to keep it away from prying eyes…perhaps it actually was.

He lifted out a snow globe, a scene from the Alps that Harry had brought back on his first excursion whilst instructing Lee Unwin on cold weather maneuvers. He shook it a little, then set it aside to watch the flakes settle as he continued.

He lingered over the next piece of nostalgia, if only because it had been a part of his daily life for so long. He wore a faint smile as he lifted it out, the tea-stained mug a familiar weight in his hands. It was a garish, gauche thing, a sort of reddish orange. There was a sunrise painted on it in pale reds and yellows, and white text proclaimed _“Bon Dia from Barcelona!”_ Merlin ran his thumb across the painted cartoon smile on the sun with a fond look.

It was exactly the sort of kitsch that would appeal to Harry Hart, though frankly, Merlin was fond of the mug as well.

After Harry had been shot in Kentucky, he had been unable to use it any longer. He’d washed it, dried it, and put it away with all the other memories in the box. Each of the items inside were a piece of memory, carefully hoarded sentiment that could not be released to the world at large. Thirty years of loving a man who was supposed to have no ties to the world around him had generated a handful of knick-knacks, photographs, and other bric-a-brac. While small, the collection was precious, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

The only thing missing had been the framed butterfly, as it had come with Merlin to America, where it remained in his and Harry’s shared quarters, propped up on a desk.

Merlin breathed in, setting the mug aside. Finally, he found what he was looking for, tucking the small item into his coat pocket. He replaced each item carefully, one by one, storing them until he could put them in his new offices in Scotland.

Merlin found he was looking forward to it as he relocked the case and headed out to his waiting taxi.

* * *

_“Roxanne Louise Morton.”_

Her full name made her freeze as she walked through the doors of the Statesman compound. They were in the ‘safe’ part of the compound, away from prying eyes—those of the public, anyway. The other three had stopped with her, the tension in the room skyrocketing as she turned to find James standing in the foyer’s side door, arms folded.

The expression on his face wasn’t something she’d ever associated with her uncle, and it took her a span of heartbeats to realize that it was cold fury radiating from the furrowed slope of his brow, the grim set of his mouth. It was jarring, especially from her Uncle James, the man who thought life was a cosmically funny joke, and rarely let anything ruffle him for more than a few hours, unless he could be dramatic about it.

She realized that it was because she’d never seen this anger directed at her. It was something that had never happened before—James had always been gentler with her. He’d never gotten frustrated, instead taking her childish antics in stride and even escalating them if it meant getting Martin to join them in their play. He’d never snapped at her like this.

Then again, he’d never used her full name before.

“Someone’s in _trouble_ ,” she heard Nasha whisper behind her, and she couldn’t stop the embarrassed flush that crawled up her neck to her ears and cheeks. Lee elbowed his partner in crime and Lamb subsided, taking the chastising from Tequila with a good humor not reserved for anyone else.

“Yes, Uncle?” she asked, forcing a polite smile to her face.

“Follow me,” he barked, and turned on his heel, stalking down the hallway.

She cast a glance at the others. Lee looked away, drawing his hat down with an embarrassed clearing of his throat. Nasha gave her an almost sarcastic thumbs-up, but Eggsy looked like he could relate, reaching out and giving her shoulder a squeeze.

“We’ll go and debrief with Merlin,” Eggsy said. “Go on, Rox. We’ll tell him.”

She nodded, swallowing hard and following after James. She almost had to break into a jog to run after James, before she realized that was what he wanted. He wanted her off balance and he wanted her confused and struggling to keep up. Never before had James pulled this sort of power-play with her, always treating her as an equal.

She forced herself to slow her stride, walking with purpose but without the urgency James seemed to demand of her. Her uncle stopped at the double doors to the library that Kingsman had appropriated as their own until their headquarters in Scotland had been solidified. He just barely remembered his manners, opening the door for her and allowing her to proceed him.

Roxy forced her breathing to slow, willing herself into calmness as she heard the quiet click of the door behind her closing. James said nothing as he moved to the sideboard, pouring himself a drink. He didn’t offer her one.

“What’s this about, Uncle?” she asked, wanting to get ahead of him on this.

“Why did you go back to England?” James asked quietly. There was a thread of thinly veiled danger in his tone, as though she should choose her words carefully.

“I requested leave to see Mama,” she said, gritting her teeth. While she had gone to see Amanda Morton, had spent several days with her, in fact, she had a feeling that this wasn’t about her mother. It had to be her other errand while she was home that had James so incensed.

“And while your mother was delighted to see you, the queries I made indicated that you didn’t visit her until four days into your trip,” James replied.

That was a blow. Roxy flinched. Not that he’d asked, but that he’d had to make _queries_ , like a stranger.

James had to make queries because officially, on the record and for tax purposes – he was dead. Still. It had been a decision by Reginald Fitzroy, the Arthur in the short time between Chester and Harry, to keep James out of the limelight while he recovered.

His sister mourned an empty casket, she placed flowers at an empty, tended gravesite next to their mother’s and mourned a man standing before Roxy now. Many times, Roxy had to bite her tongue or rephrase a sentence, referring to James in the past tense; her mother often thought she was still grieving.

He couldn’t just call his sister and snoop on his niece. Which is what he was doing. Snooping.

Not that she’d given him any real recourse other than to enquire.

“It coincided nicely with a letter Kingsman’s receiving department sent along for a senior Knight to review,” he said. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. Setting his drink down on the sideboard, he unfolded what looked to be a letter. “This just so happens to be from the law firms of Gainsborough, Beechman, and Stowe. You wouldn’t know them, save perhaps in vague passing—but _I_ know them.”

He held the letter out to her, gesturing that she should take it. When she didn’t, he jerked it back with an almost mechanical movement and began to read aloud.

“Dear Ms. Roxanne Morton, Mister Gary Unwin, Mister Henry Hart, Kingsman Tailors, their lawyers Pluckman and Doyle, et. al,” he began, his tone savage, his glare pinning her in place before him. “This letter is to acknowledge your receipt of one restraining order and one cease and desist for each of the named parties above save the law firm representing the above. Until such time has passed that the law considers allowable and the offended parties of Mortimer and Geraldine Gainsborough have assured themselves of no further harassment from your personages, you are to remove yourselves from their properties, their presence, and their holdings. Under no circumstances are you to be within ten square kilometers of their family home at Ipswich, and any businesses owned and operated by them are barred to you. Knowingly breaking this order will incur not only fines against your person but criminal proceedings which Gainsborough, Beechman, and Stowe will pursue to the fullest letter of the law.”

“Uncle James—”

“I haven’t finished, _Lancelot_.” The title was spat with such venom Roxy wasn’t sure she wouldn’t incur some sort of lasting wound. “Do you understand what you’ve done?”

“I did the right thing,” Roxy said, her hackles up now. “As inconvenient as it might be for you, Martin is their _son_. They deserved to know.”

“Not only did you blithely ignore my request, you risked outing not just us, but the Sons and Statesman as well!” James snapped. “The Gainsboroughs care nothing for their son, as I’m sure you discovered. I wouldn’t have told you to stay away for no good reason, Roxanne. That you chose to ignore what I was telling you in favor of satisfying your own curiosity has put us under scrutiny.”

Roxy frowned, lifting her chin stubbornly. “And what would you have done, in my place?”

“I’m the reason he went straight to the restraining order,” James said, his tone dark. “When I say I know, I know from experience.”

“I still owed it to Uncle Martin to try!” she cried.

“You didn’t!” James said. “I explained to you your uncle’s wishes, and mine, yet you ignored me. You’ve behaved as though you were still a willful child of eight, Roxy.”

“I’m not a child! I proved adult enough to take the title when you—”

She stopped, biting back on her anger. James didn’t deserve that. Whatever her uncle had done, or was doing now, was a direct result of his service to Kingsman. She remembered the diagnosis from Morgana. PTSD. Trauma. Massive spikes in anger, depression, even suicidal thoughts. The best she could do for him would be to love him as much as she could through it.

He’d suffered so much, he didn’t deserve to have her lash out with her mother’s formidable temper, something in the Spencer side of her blood that made her want to bite as hard as she could to see him bleed, as though that would make things better and not worse.

James had drawn himself to his full height, lips drawn white at the corners and his eyes tight with rage.

“Say it.” The quiet command echoed in the suddenly silent room, nothing but the crackle of the fire to break the hush that descended.

He might not deserve to be lashed out at, but neither would she bend underneath his own Spencer temper. She lifted her chin again, head back, shoulders straight.

“I was adult enough to take the title when you died,” she said, her gaze as steely as she could make it. “Uncle Martin believed in me enough to nominate me as his prospect.”

“And he was foolish to do so, he and I have had that discussion, as you’ll recall!” James bit out, his voice rising with each word. “Tell me, Roxanne, how did it feel to learn that I killed people for a living? Was it exciting? Did it thrill you to be dragged into this? Did he paint it like an adventure?”

“That’s not—”

The library door opening was almost inaudible under the volume of James’s shouting, but Roxy turned when she saw his focus shift, seeing Eggsy’s head poke through the door. Worried blue eyes met hers, and she gave a minute shake of her head, a tiny motion with her hand. Eggsy pressed on despite her warnings.

“Rox—”

“Get _out_ ,” James snarled at him. “Get the _fuck_ **_out_**.”

Eggsy paled, removing himself from the room. Roxy could hear footsteps echoing down the hall, but James wasn’t done. He turned back to her.

“Are you pleased with yourself?” he asked.

“Quite,” she said. “I’m not sorry for going, Uncle. I had to try, and what’s done is done.”

He scowled, opening his mouth. She cut him off, shaking her head as she spoke.

“No, Uncle James. This isn’t about me, is it?” she pressed gently. “You’re angry, and I understand why, but you also must understand that I’m an adult, and I have been for many years now. I’m no longer the Roxy who made you sit for tea parties. I’m a Kingsman, I’m Lancelot, and unfortunately, as the active Knight, my decision was my own to make.”

James’s angry retort was interrupted by the sound of the doorknob rattling once more. Roxy turned, seeing Merlin and Harry framed in the double doors, their expressions grave. Harry moved into the room, Merlin wheeling himself in after him. Roxy caught sight of Eggsy just as Harry closed the doors behind their wizard, his expression pale and worried as he hovered out in the hallway.

“James,” Harry said gently, his tone soothing. “I think that’s quite enough.”

“Oh, butt out, Harry,” James snapped. “Why don’t you take your happy ending and just f- ** _fuck_** off?”

Roxy’s attention snapped to James’s face, seeing the anger mottled there in high, hard spots of color in his cheeks and forehead. His hands were balled into fists, his knuckles white as he shouted.

“James,” Harry said. His tone was firmer now, and Arthur placed himself between the Lancelots—past and present—separating them and providing James another target. Roxy cast a helpless glance at his broad back, then looked to Merlin, who beckoned her backward. She stepped back, to his side, and he patted her arm.

She realized then that she was shaking, trembling all over from the brunt of James’s temper. She hugged herself, folding her arms about her torso, swallowing hard as she got herself together. Merlin spared her a concerned look, and she nodded.

“No, Harry, she’s an _adult_ now, didn’t you hear? She can take care of herself—she doesn’t need you to protect her. Let her hear the truth,” James said, his gaze fixed on Harry now. “She’s going to swan about the world and do whatever she pleases now because she thinks that’s the freedom afforded by the title.”

“I could remind you that you once thought the very same,” Harry chided, folding his arms as he remained steadfast as James’s anger buffeted against him. It was as though the unstoppable force had met the immovable object now, and Roxy watched them warily. “James, you’re letting your temper and your fears rule your judgment right now. While it’s understandable, you need to remember that the ones you’re speaking to care for you the most. What would Martin say?”

“Well, I can’t bally well ask him, now can I, Harry?” James said, aiming for his words to hurt now. “He’s not exactly leaping out of fucking bed to chastise me like the rest of you. I should be so lucky.”

It occurred to Roxy that she’d never seen her uncle be deliberately cruel in his words and actions before. Yes, he could be unthinkingly ungentle with his words, when making a joke, but he would always apologize if it was against someone he was close to; there were bounds that even James Spencer wouldn’t cross.

Now he was striding across them as though he were on a mission to No-Man’s Land and it was 1916.

“James,” Merlin said softly.

James ignored him, glaring at Harry. That seemed to ignite something within Merlin and he frowned mightily, wheeling himself over until he was shoulder to hip with Harry.

“What’s wrong, James, not got the stones to lay into the gimp?” Merlin snapped. James’s face morphed from angry to horrified as his focus switched from Harry to Merlin, and he stepped back as though he’d been slapped. “You seemed perfectly fine shouting at everyone else! Go on, then. Let’s hear it.”

“Stop it!” James blurted, a hand coming up to cover his mouth. “Merlin, _don’t_.”

“You can do better than that, James.” Merlin’s tone was steely as he made an imperious gesture at the stricken former Lancelot. “Go ahead, I’ll wait.”

James swiped a shaking hand over his face. “Do you both not _care_ that she might have exposed Kingsman when we’re at our most vulnerable for a personal errand I told her not to embark on, for all our sakes?”

“I was aware of where she was going, otherwise I wouldn’t have allowed them to take a jet,” Harry replied. Roxy felt heat suffuse her face. “You and I spoke on it at length before she requested personal time. I pulled her research history and extrapolated from there. I’ve lost an eye, not my senses, James.”

“To what end?” James asked. “To reinforce to the Gainsboroughs that we’re a bunch of shady tailors? You know they have to have dug into her history and connected the dots.”

“It’s likely they simply thought her a concerned member of his extended family,” Merlin said.

“What’s worse is that you both _knew_ about it!” James snapped. “Even after everything that happened, you still allowed her to go and make fools of all of us in order to—to _indulge_ her!”

“That wasn’t the reason I allowed her visit, James,” Harry said, speaking quietly despite James’s lather. “I allowed it because she would have gone with my blessing or no. She believed this to be the right course of action, and that’s not something I want to dissuade within my junior Knights.”

“Your Knights,” James spat. “ ** _Yours_**. I see you’ve settled onto the bloody throne quite nicely, willing to walk all over whatever anyone else says. Were you aware I asked her not to?”

“Yes,” Harry said. His tone didn’t change, nor did his stance in front of Roxy. “I’m aware of a great many things, James.”

“Then you’re making this a Kingsman matter,” James said, blowing out a shaky breath. “Are the Gainsboroughs under official investigation?”

“Not as such,” Harry replied. “But there’s another matter that required my attention.”

“What?” James asked, eyes flicking back and forth between Harry and Merlin.

“We were going to tell you,” Roxy said, moving to Harry’s other side. The brief reprieve had been enough for her to get her sense of self back. She was aware of the speculative glance that Harry sent her way, but chose to ignore it in favor of addressing James. “Martin has a brother, a few years younger than I am. He wanted to meet with Martin when he awoke.”

“No,” James said. “No one like the Gainsboroughs would reproduce twice.”

“And that was my initial thought,” Harry said. James seemed to have wilted, his legs knocked out from under him by the admission. “But the background check pulled up several sources of information stating that Michael Gainsborough is indeed their son. Not only did I find birth records, I also dug up a surrogate agreement signed by them that matched roughly the time period required for such a thing to be legal and for Michael to be born.”

James shuddered, his jaw jumping. “They even named him similarly. God, that’s horrible. They actually tried to replace him. How could someone be so…”

He swayed, and Harry reached out to steady him, only to catch him as James’s legs nearly gave out completely. He guided the former Lancelot to one of the couches, sitting him down and pouring him another measure of the scotch he’d been drinking. Roxy moved to his side, and reached out, only to have him shy away from her.

Of everything that had been said, insinuated, and thought, this action was the worst. James had never been one to avoid touch. He loved being hugged and roughhoused with, touched by both Martin and herself. Even Amanda was known to lean into him when he’d been home. To say that James was touch-hungry was a misnomer. He was simply gregarious and caring, with affection enough for everyone, though there seemed to be a deep, bottomless reserve for both Roxy and Martin.

Until now.

James accepted the glass of scotch, holding it in one hand as he avoided her eyes.

“Please go, Roxanne,” he said quietly.

“Uncle James,” she said, aware that her voice was thick with emotion.

“I don’t want to have this conversation as much as I thought I did, I’m afraid,” James said. He drank deeply from the glass he held, then set the empty tumbler down on the side table. “Just…go.”

Roxy shot Merlin a glance, and he nodded, his face grim. She rose, moving past their wizard’s wheelchair, only to pause as he reached out for her arm.

“Send us Morgana, if you please,” he murmured. She nodded, keeping her head held high.

She lasted until she got the doors shut behind her. She pressed a shaking hand over her mouth, letting the noise that had been fighting to claw its way from her chest escape in a whimper that she muffled against her palm. She’d quite forgotten that Eggsy was there; when he touched her shoulder she flinched, looking up at him with large, dark eyes.

Eggsy wrapped her in a hug that crushed the breath from her, and she crumpled, burying her face in his shoulder as she let out what feeling she could against the fabric of his bespoke. He passed a hand up and down her spine, holding her until her shaking ebbed.

She felt used up, like someone had opened her chest and scooped out what was inside. If she had the option to dry up and blow away, she might take it, as wrung out as she felt. She realized that Eggsy was swaying with her, soothing her as much as he could.

“All right, Rox?” he murmured, when she was silent for a moment.

She nodded, not trusting herself to answer honestly any other way. He gave her another squeeze, stepping back and chafing her biceps with his hands. She remembered thinking Eggsy clumsy once, emotionally, when she’d first met him. She realized now, and had for some time, that Eggsy simply chose to be himself, regardless of what others might plan for him. If he wanted to feel something, he allowed himself to do so, openly and without apology. Sometimes she envied him for that, almost as if it were a real super power.

She let him squeeze her again and then took his handkerchief, drying her eyes.

“All right now,” she said, clearing her throat. “We should go get Morgana to tend to Uncle James.”

“I can do it, if you want me to,” he offered. He was kind, to the last, because that’s just how he was. He might think she was the best friend, and the best agent, but a lot of times…she felt that the opposite was true, at least here.

She couldn’t ask for better.

“No,” she said, smiling at him. “This is a family matter. It’s just something I have to do.”

* * *

“He’s resting now,” Morgana said, shutting the door of the office Harry was borrowing. “I gave him a mild sedative and tucked him in. He’ll be groggy when he wakes, but perhaps he’ll have slept off the temper and awaken with a fresh perspective on things.”

Harry turned to her from where he was looking out the window. Merlin hadn’t stopped typing at the desk, but he knew that his partner was listening, with the way that his long and elegant hands slowed over the keys. Harry rested a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, his gaze intent on Morgana.

“What can we do for him?” Harry asked.

“Honestly? Therapy. I would say we could encourage him to go, but I can’t name doctors here with any certainty. I might have to get with that lovely Whiskey woman…perhaps Warren as well. I’ll draw you up a list and then another once we’ve moved.” She frowned, the weight of James’s anguish heavy on her shoulders.

Harry felt it, too.

James had been suffering more than he had realized in the short time he’d been able to spend with him. He’d learned of their former Lancelot’s recovery, only to mourn their deaths…and then celebrate their return from London, in the handspan of two weeks. Less than six had passed since the Sons had joined forces with Statesman to help the ailing Kingsman reunite and recover.

Had James even had time to decompress? Had he had a chance to uncork all that feeling roiling around inside his chest? Harry had known James almost as long as he’d known Martin, and he could make the educated guess that he hadn’t.

He realized he’d been woolgathering when Merlin answered for him. “I think that it would be for the best, yes. I’ll see about some off time for him as well. He was doing much better when Lancelot and Galahad were dragging him everywhere and keeping him from dwelling on things.”

“Activity and getting him out of here at least once a week would help, yes,” Morgana agreed. She fixed Harry with a look. “We can’t force him. Coax him, yes, but forcing him will make him withdraw further.”

“Yes, mum,” Harry said, faintly amused. He’d been thinking along the same lines, wondering how best to cajole their hurting friend into some place where he could lick his wounds without being judged. “Lancelot wishes to know as soon as he’s feeling better.”

Morgana softened visibly, her approval apparent in the uptick at the corner of her mouth. “A good girl, that one. She’s been wringing her hands about the both of them, though you wouldn’t know it to look at her.”

Harry definitely agreed with her. He made a mental note to check in on their youngest Knight. While resilient as any Knight on his roster, Lancelot was still human; fighting with family always took a harsher toll than one anticipated.

“May I make a suggestion?” Merlin said quietly. Harry squeezed his wizard’s shoulder, turning his attention to him. “Would time in the company of blood be helpful? The previous Arthur forbade him from reconnecting with his twin sister, but…”

“Mm,” Harry said, brow furrowing. “Was there a reason?”

“It was safer, he reasoned,” Merlin replied. “James could recover in private, and when he was back to fighting form, he could re-enter the service, should he choose.”

“It’s part of what saved the three of them,” Morgana added. “James’s flat wasn’t on the active Knight roster, and Poppy’s missiles were only targeting the heart of the organization.”

“Luck that didn’t hold out to the bridge,” Harry finished the morbid thought, frowning. “But might have ultimately been the best possible outcome. If James is open to it, I’ll engage a formal line of communication with Amanda Morton through Lancelot and reunite them.”

Merlin and Morgana both nodded, seeming satisfied with his decision.

“Then I’ll get to work on drawing you up that list,” Morgana said. “If you’ll excuse me?”

“Of course, Mags,” Harry said, inclining his head at her. “You hardly need my permission.”

“Oh, but Arthur, you’d never hear the end of it from the youngsters,” she said with a sly smile as she moved for the door. “But then…I have a feeling you don’t anyway.”

Harry chuckled wryly as the door closed behind Morgana. She had his number, but that was part and parcel with knowing him as well as she did. Perhaps she was right; he was indeed new to the role, and it was something of a balancing act to sort through everything on his plate, this included.

But it was important—as important as taking steps to rebuild was, it was also important to care for the Knights under his care. James was as much a Knight now as he ever was, and Harry meant to look out for him.

“I can hear you thinking,” Merlin murmured, jarring Harry back to the present. He looked down to find his partner’s hazel eyes watching him. “We’ll get it righted.”

“That we will, Dove,” Harry said. Uncanny, how Merlin seemed to know his mind even after their long separation. It was like they’d never left each other’s sides at times, while at others it was like sharing space with a living, breathing version of déjà vu.

Harry lived for both. It was an honor and a privilege to occupy the space beside Merlin, their lives entwined at last, and he wouldn’t change it.

“I’ve something for you,” Merlin said, and Harry tilted his head in question. “Though I don’t know if it’s what you intended.”

“What is it?” Harry asked. Merlin sounded uncertain now, as though second-guessing himself.

The tech wizard reached into his sweater’s pocket, withdrawing a small box. It wasn’t unusual for Merlin to give him gifts, but…

This was one that Harry recognized. He’d chosen the box for its ostentation, the blue velvet worn from the corners as though someone had used the elegant little box as a worry stone. The hinges and clasp were gold, burnished with the pass of many fingers—or perhaps just the one set, those holding the box.

He hadn’t seen that little box since 1998.

He tore his gaze from the box to see Merlin staring at him, hazel eyes searching his face as Harry tried to force himself to breathe. He realized then that Merlin’s hand was shaking and he reached out, cupping his fiancé’s hand in both of his, wrapping both their fingers around the little box.

“You kept it,” he breathed.

“Of course I did,” Merlin said. “What did you expect?”

“For you to chuck it into the Thames, if I’m honest. I remember shouting the house down when I learnt you’d gone into the field after me when Yusupova captured me.” Harry chuckled even as Merlin fixed him with a glare. “It was a flight of fancy back then, though I meant it when I presented it. I had no way of knowing we’d ever make it here.”

“We almost didn’t,” Merlin said. “You daft bastard.”

“You’re equally daft,” Harry argued gently, though his words had no bite, the affection leaking through as he bent to brush the lightest kiss against Merlin’s temple. “But I meant every word. I wanted you, and I meant to have you, in any way I could.”

“I was always yours, you silly git,” Merlin groused, though the spreading red up his neck was a lovely counterpoint to the idea that he was truly upset. “But you’re going to need to do it again.”

“Do what?” Harry asked, momentarily baffled.

“Considering as my knees don’t _work_ ,” Merlin said, lifting a sardonic brow at him, “I’m trusting you to do the honors.”

Oh. _Oh._ Harry’s brain stutter-stepped for a moment, and he took the velvet box from Merlin, running his thumb along the clasp that kept it closed.

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Callum,” Harry said with a small smile.

Merlin reversed himself out from where his chair was tucked against the desk so he could work, turning so that he was facing Harry. He propped his elbow on one of the arm rests, his chin in his hand, his smile smug.

“Better?” he asked.

“Not quite. I was thinking dinner, candlelight, soft music…” He hummed softly. “Though not perhaps John Denver…”

“You have me, in your office, begging you to propose to me,” Merlin said. “Don’t muck it up now.”

“Of course, darling,” Harry conceded, dropping smoothly to one knee and presenting the ring box to Merlin with a little flourish. “Callum Craig, I mean to keep you. Are you still prepared to take a broken old man on bended knee?”

“Well, considering I don’t see a broken old man, just Harry Hart making an ass of himself…” Merlin’s gaze was full of laughter, and Harry’s grin got a little wider. “Go on, then.”

Harry reached for Merlin’s left hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. He opened the box, only to hear Merlin’s intake of breath.

“Good lord, Harry.”

“You mean you never checked?” Harry asked, looking up at Merlin’s face. It was clear the other man hadn’t, the sight of the ring as fresh to Merlin as the day he’d presented the box in Turkey. “Did you honestly never look?”

“It never…felt right,” Merlin said, biting his lip. “There was that long time we took navigating how best to do this, and then…Kentucky. I felt it should have been you showing me, not finding out for myself. With you gone…”

Harry nodded, looking down at the ring. As polished as it had been when Harry had purchased it, the white tungsten band gleamed in the weak winter sunlight that cascaded in from the window. Circling the middle of the band was a ring of black sapphires, dark and elegant, like pebbles at the bottom of a clear stream.

“Tungsten lasts forever,” Harry murmured. “I’d meant it to be a grand statement, in the scheme of things, but when you needed the distraction, I—”

“You thought quickly and got us away,” Merlin admonished. “You made a statement that I kept with me for nearly twenty years, afraid to open it because I was terrified, I wanted it so much.”

“Well, you shall have it,” Harry declared, plucking the ring from the dark blue velvet cushion it rested on and lifting Merlin’s hand. The ring still fit, sized properly thanks to a quick bribe to Morgana when Merlin had gone in for one of his checkups, and it slid onto his partner’s hand like a dream.

Harry owed her a bottle of good sherry. He made a mental note to pay up as Merlin tugged him close and kissed him soundly.

“All I wanted was you,” Merlin mumbled against Harry’s mouth. “Now get up off the floor, you’ll ruin your knees.”

“I think I should like to stay here for just a minute longer,” Harry said, his smile going a touch sly. “Though I might have to rise to throw the door locks.”

“And here I thought we’d grown beyond this stage,” Merlin sighed, though there was a playful light in his eyes that Harry had missed. It suited him even more than Harry’s band on his finger. “Shagging in cupboards and any available flat surface that catches your fancy…”

“ _Never_ ,” Harry said without losing his grin. He kissed his fiancé again, feeling the brush of the band on Merlin’s finger as the man he loved cupped his jaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good god that took a long time to write. I spent a lot of time tweaking James's dialogue and carefully carving that out, because an outburst like that from a man who is the literal personification of good grace and humor is something monstrous to see. Really, it should be monstrous to see, what with the stress he's been under. Soon, though, things will right themselves, and stormy seas will flatten into calmer waters.
> 
> More Bon Dia tomorrow or Wednesday, I reckon. I have two whole days off! \o/
> 
> As always, I hope you're enjoying, Constant Readers. Feel free to leave kudos or comments, I love waking up to them!


	15. Hands of Clay and Mouths of Sand (Post TGC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I’m sorry.’ The two most inadequate words in the English language. – Beth Revis_

“I’m a prat,” James said, sitting beside Martin’s bedside. He was met with silence, Martin’s lashes still fanned out over the planes of his cheeks.

The silence was hardly that; there was the soft shirr of the respirator, keeping Martin breathing, the various soft chimes of equipment keeping his partner tethered to this world. Sometimes, this silence was all he knew for days on end, sitting here with Martin while he recovered.

He had no doubt that Martin would have agreed with his assessment, were he awake, but there was a laundry list of things that might have been avoided had their currently-comatose Percival been awake. His slip backwards from recovery had been a monumental slide back, his days darkening the longer that Martin stayed unmoving in the bed beside him.

He was hardly lashed to Martin hand and foot, but James had never had a partner like Martin Gainsborough before. James had always been the middle-man, the matchmaker, someone to have a bit of fun with and then move on to other things. No one blinked twice if he mentioned he was polyamorous, as though that were part and parcel to him being just another stop before finding someone to actually settle down with—someone that wasn’t him.

Martin, however, had seen all that and more, and had accepted James as he was. He loved James for who he was, taken him whole into himself and guarded it with a fierce hunger. The need for James to be himself had never clashed with who Martin was, as incredible as it sounded. Despite the differences in their temperaments, they had worked.

Now, with Martin comatose, all James was left with was a shell in a bed. Hiding in here hadn’t been his usual idea of a good time, but with the recent mood of the Statesman compound, it was inevitable that he find his way here. Most of that was his own fault, really. James retreated here more often than he would admit these days—his subsequent dressing down of Lancelot had left them all walking about him like they were treading on delicate panes of glass.

He hated it.

He hated all of it. James had never done well with any sort of convalescence, but to fall so far backward, to scare his niece, to make her cry—there was a monster inside him and it was beating at his ribs to get out and taste blood like that again.

“You’d be disgusted with me,” he said softly. “I made her cry.”

He swallowed, looking over at Martin. His partner hadn’t moved, but then, Morgana had supposed that talking to him might help. James didn’t have anyone else, not at the moment. Instead, he took Martin’s hand in one of his own.

“She went to your parents. She went after I told her not to, after you told her not to. She—” A bubble of hysterical laughter escaped, and he bit down on it, getting himself under control. “She brought back your brother. He wants to meet you.”

How these things could have gone this wrong, James had no idea, but here they were.

“Oh, darling,” he said softly. He sighed out the word, pressing Martin’s cool fingers to his lips. “I don’t know quite how to get along without you, anymore.”

He looked down at his free hand, where he’d been turning his phone over and over in his palm like a worry stone. He had no idea how much time had passed between his words. Time down here had no meaning, as though he and Martin were encased in amber down here. Still, it must march on somehow, because days passed and Martin showed improvement, slow though it might be.

Some years ago, Merlin had persuaded him to get the photos he’d taken backed up in a digital format. It was handy, he realized, after V-Day and after Poppy’s massacre. All the memories he’d made would be gone forever had he not saved them on a ghost drive far outside of Kingsman’s sphere of influence. Backed up on servers in two different countries, he could access his photos from anywhere.

He’d been going through them, before he was distracted by his ever-present guilty thoughts. He’d stopped on a photo from a Christmas long ago—one of Johnathan’s parties, insufferable though James would never miss an opportunity to make his brother-in-law uncomfortable—and he focused on it again.

“Things don’t…go back the way they’re supposed to,” he murmured. Martin, predictably, didn’t answer, but James didn’t need him to. Instead, he pocketed his mobile. “Even you will change if… ** _when_** you wake. I should make the best of the present, don’t you think?”

Martin’s forehead was cool and dry as James pressed his lips to it before he moved to leave. James kicked the heat up just a notch, to make sure his partner was comfortable.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said.

Martin slept on, the machines humming quietly as James closed the door behind him.

* * *

Roxanne stopped mid-stride, realizing James was in the library. She’d come to return the book she’d finished reading to her Uncle Martin, but his partner was currently seated on the couch, as though waiting on her. He didn’t seem in any hurry to leave, and the glass of water he was drinking rested easily in his hand as he crossed his legs at the knee. He looked up as she entered, his gaze troubled.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Clearing her throat, she said it again so that he could hear her. “I can come back, I’m—”

“Roxanne,” James said. His voice was hoarse, as though he hadn’t spoken to anyone in a long while. To Roxy’s knowledge, he hadn’t; everyone she’d asked said that he’d been avoiding everyone. Having him right here, out in the open instead of skulking about medical like a wounded cat, it was almost as though a minor miracle had occurred.

She stopped when he called her name, setting the book down on the table by the door.

There was a silence that stretched between them, for a long moment. She could hear the crackle of the logs in the fireplace, slowly being drowned out by the thud of her heartbeat in her ears.

“Will you sit with me a while?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said softly. She moved to the sitting area before the fire, taking one of the armchairs instead of the space beside him on the couch that she might have occupied in happier times. James noticed, in the slight hesitation and the clouding of his eyes, but he nodded, as though he expected it and even might have felt he deserved it.

This close, she could see how tired he really was. Dark circles smudged his eyes, making them seem sunken and hollow. He’d lost some weight, setting his cheekbones in stark relief above the darkness of the stubble that coated his jaw.

His hands didn’t shake anymore, a sign of improvement; the tremor there was the first thing he’d blamed when they’d climbed aboard the Sons’ submarine. Blaming everything he could on himself, on his inability to rescue either of them—or to rescue Martin. The tremor had been there since V-Day, since his recovery, and it had influenced his aim more than he cared to admit.

Now, however, his hand was steady. It was a start, she thought. Clearly, the therapy was helping. They were flying back to England in the next week to see her mother—and James would be the better for it, she knew. Being apart from his sister by choice but unable to connect…it wasn’t doing her uncle any favors.

For now, however, he regarded her with an expression she couldn’t quite name, though it wasn’t hostile as it was before. What did he see, she wondered, as he looked at her? She had no way of knowing, this new James volatile and unpredictable when they pulled him from Valentine’s cells. He was no longer her proud uncle, one who took her to recitals and decided that she was the best thing on this earth next to Kingsman and her uncle Martin.

It was like looking into the eyes of a total stranger wearing her uncle’s face, and she didn’t quite know how to put that into words. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap, meeting his gaze with a neutral expression.

“I did you a disservice,” he said. He glanced away from her, taking a sip from his water and clearing his throat. “I took your devotion to Martin as…impudence. And for that, and for the way I reacted, I’m sorry. I know that you care for him as much as I do, albeit in different ways.”

Roxy gave a slow inhale. “Uncle James—”

“May I finish?” he asked quietly. “I know that you have many things you likely wish to lay at my feet, but…”

Roxy fell silent, waiting. It seemed anathema to her, her uncle unable to articulate his thoughts and his feelings in a way that made sense to him and the ones around him. He gave a shaky breath, then continued, setting his water glass down.

“You are, and always have been, headstrong and sure-footed. I just didn’t know how to handle it when it was me that it was directed towards, rather than your father or your teachers,” James said. He gave a weak chuckle. “I reacted badly towards you, and I should never have…”

He fell silent for a moment, rubbing a hand along his face as though to help himself focus.

“I don’t know that you could ever forgive me,” James said. “Everyone around me has given me—they’ve, they’ve given me chance after chance, they’ve accepted me—”

His voice broke, and he gave another shaky inhale, staring at the knuckles of his right hand.

“You don’t believe you deserve forgiveness,” Roxy said softly.

James startled, looking at her as though she’d reached over and sliced open the palm of his hand with no warning whatsoever. It was how she knew she was right, intuitive as she was to both of her uncles’ moods. She’d laid bare the problem, and she didn’t think he realized how obvious it was to her. It was a topic he danced around with a joke, thinking that she hadn’t noticed the flatness of his gaze when he smiled about it.

That was quite enough of that, in Roxy’s opinion.

She got to her feet, moving over to the couch and settling herself right beside James, leaning into him. It was awkward, at first, but she nudged him and he lifted his arm and she proceeded to squeeze his middle like she never intended to let go.

“Uncle James, why would you ever believe that?” she asked, a hoarse whisper. “We just wanted you back. We knew that you’d be going through these things, and it’s not any fault of your own.”

She felt him hesitate, but with her cheek pressed against his shoulder, she couldn’t see his face. Instead, she felt the press of his hand against her hair as he wrapped his arm around her, and she just hugged him tighter.

“Roxy,” he said. “Oh, my darling girl. How can you ever forgive me?”

“Because I love you, you silly man,” she said. Her voice was thick, and she could feel the tears coming. For once, she didn’t bother to stop them. His grip on her tightened, until they were clinging to each other like they were the only safe port in a storm.

How long they sat like that, Roxy didn’t know, but after a long while she lifted her head to find him watching her with reddened eyes. It wasn’t rare to see James cry, but this…seemed different. She reached into her pocket and fetched her handkerchief, offering it to James and retrieving her spare as well so she could blot at her own face.

“I could have taken the shot,” James said quietly as they righted themselves a bit, though neither pulled to far away to do so. “I could have taken that shot from the car. We had the ammunition, we had the sightline. I hesitated instead. I let him fight that…that—”

“You know that he did it to protect the both of us,” she said. He nodded, seeming to feel the same way about it that she did; Martin was going to have an earful from the both of them. Maybe not immediately, but it was a conversation they’d be having.

“Roxy,” he said. She looked back up at him, and he pressed his lips to her forehead. “You mustn’t ever back down from your beliefs, and…I’m very proud that you didn’t, even if they made me angry at the time. You did what you thought was right, and you should never be ashamed of that.”

She nodded, swallowing against the lump forming in her throat again. “I’m sorry that I felt I needed to lie to you about it. I just…it needed to be done.”

James took that, chewing over it mentally for a long moment. “You did what you felt was necessary. I shouldn’t have been angry about that. It was more…fear. I know more about what Martin’s…”

His jaw jumped, and Roxy nodded, recalling Mickey’s story about the little grave. “I think I have a better idea now.”

“You were in a lot of danger,” James said quietly. “But…if you would like to pursue this…brother. This young man, Mickey, and have him meet your uncle when he wakes, then you’ll need access to the files I’ve been compiling.”

“Intelligence gathering?” she asked, eyebrows rising. That was usually Merlin’s forte.

“Spite,” James replied. “I went through the trouble of digging up as much dirt as I could possibly find on Mortimer and Geraldine Gainsborough as I could. I didn’t have to dig far, either.”

Roxy nodded, then leaned against his shoulder. “Then we’ll go over it together. Fresh eyes on it will help us plan a better counter-measure against them.”

James chuckled, but said nothing, pressing his cheek against her hair.

“I’ve missed you terribly.” It seemed like an understatement, but he also seemed to understand. He linked his pinkie with hers, bringing their knuckles flush and pressing the pad of his thumb to hers.

“I’ve missed you, too,” he said. “I promise to do better.”

Roxy nodded. “I promise to help.”

* * *

Harry turned away from the one-way mirror that looked out onto the shooting range. Both Lancelots were in good form today, going through basic drills and reaffirming their training with various firearms. It was heartening to see, James and Roxy talking and standing shoulder to shoulder while they discussed tactics and the pros and cons of various weapons.

While he hadn’t been eavesdropping, there was a certain worry in his check-in. James seemed to be doing better. He seemed more vibrant, losing the angry cloud that seemed to follow him about and had cast a pall upon the Kingsman portion of the Statesman compound. He was eating at regular intervals again, and Roxy reported a marked upswing in her uncle’s mood.

There was relief in the slope of Harry’s shoulders as he turned away from the observation window, leaving them to their practice. He stepped out into the hallway to find Merlin waiting for him.

“Merlin,” Harry said, offering his partner a smile. It was returned, but with a knowing look on Merlin’s face.

“I checked on them two hours ago,” Merlin said. “They’re fine.”

“I know,” Harry said, gesturing for Merlin to come with him. He strolled beside Merlin’s chair, moving them away from the armory and the practice range and towards their living quarters. “But there are some things that do the heart good, such as making sure that fences are being mended.”

Merlin nodded and hummed thoughtfully. “They’ll be leaving soon for England. I’ve made arrangements with our satellite location for lodging.”

“Good,” Harry said. “Amanda?”

“Doing well, last I spoke with her,” Merlin said. “She doesn’t know, yet. Lancelot asked that I keep that for her.”

“Mm,” Harry said, nodding thoughtfully. “I have no doubt there will be questions. His cover is in place?”

“He was working covert ops for MI6,” Merlin replied. “I’ve no doubt my godson will be up my arse about that particular cover, but it can’t be helped. He’s agreed to assist by disavowing knowledge of James’s presence and by providing fabricated medical records. It would look suspicious coming from me, so an outside source was necessary. For all intents and purposes, James was serving his country.”

Not an entire falsehood, Harry mused. Just a partial one.

“I’ll send a thank you card to M later,” Harry murmured. “No doubt she’ll be thrilled.”

Merlin’s derisive snort was audible above the whirr of his chair’s motor. “Leave me out of that phone call.”

Harry merely smiled. “James’s therapy is going well?”

“From initial reports, yes,” Merlin said. “Morgana’s recommendation has so far proven to be effective at pinpointing what seems to distress James the most. He’s shown good improvement over the last month or so. No details are given, as a part of his agreement to go to therapy in the first place.”

“That’s the best we can hope for, at this time,” Harry said.

“It is,” Merlin said. “So, stop hovering and let them be.”

Harry chuckled. Arthur or not, he’d have to defer to Merlin on this one.

“As you wish, Dove.”

Merlin nodded, seeming satisfied. They rounded the corner toward their personal quarters, the setting sun shining through the windows and signaling the end of the day by painting the hallway in lurid reds and oranges.

Merlin stopped his chair to take a look out the window onto Statesman grounds. “Supper?”

Harry considered, glancing at his watch as he stopped to take in the view next to Merlin. “It is about that time, isn’t it? Would you like to go out?”

“I think so,” Merlin said. He glanced at Harry, and Harry felt that same sense of giddy elation that was echoed in Merlin’s expression. Honest to god dates were so new and rare that they might be taking this far too seriously, but that didn’t stop the fun of it. Living in the moment, as Merlin had called it.

“Then let me take you out,” Harry purred, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the corner of Merlin’s mouth. The way Merlin sighed into it, turning his head to catch Harry’s lips properly was a thrill all its own.

“We should go get dressed,” Merlin murmured against Harry.

“If we must,” Harry said, pulling away slowly.

Merlin just shook his head with a fond smile, readjusting his trajectory to get him into their shared quarters. Lingering had always been one of Harry’s foibles, but with the new age of Kingsman upon them, Merlin could excuse it with exasperation rather than censure so that they wouldn’t get caught.

Harry took a moment to turn back to the sunset, watching it coat the trees in red and orange and gold. It was the opposite for Kingsman, he thought, just for a moment. Their sun was rising again, and it always seemed darkest before the dawn.

“Harry?” Merlin called.

“Coming,” Harry replied, turning away from the window to join his wizard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing has become difficult, as of late. Does anyone even still follow my updates? I'm not sure anymore. I get so few comments on my work that I feel like maybe that's not the case. Maybe just the other end of the depression I'm working through. Still chugging along. More to come, Constant Readers, and thank you for sticking with me.
> 
> ETA: I realize now that my author's note could be read as passive aggressive, and that wasn't my intent at all. Merely frustrated. I'm really glad to know that people are enjoying, that was really my only worry. If no one is reading, I'd have packed it in. Sometimes I need reassurance and it came off as kind of needy. Please, if you like the story, and you're comfortable doing so, leave a comment. They mean so much more than the kudos. The kudos are just a number.


	16. Legacy (Post TGC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 
>       
>     
>     
>     _Fathers, be good to your daughters
>     Daughters will love like you do
>     Girls become lovers who turn into mothers
>     So mothers be good to your daughters too
>     
>     Oh, you see that skin?
>     It's the same she's been standing in
>     Since the day she saw him walking away
>     Now she's left cleaning up the mess he made_
>     
>     -- John Mayer, Daughters
>     
>     
>     

“Now that our position seems to be changing,” Harry said, frowning as he signed off on the last of the paperwork Champ had sent him. “How many titles must we replace?”

They sat in Harry’s temporary office at the Statesman compound, graciously allowed a work area by Champ and his staff. The room was well-appointed, with a desk, a computer, and a fully stocked library next door, as well as a side-bar for entertaining. Paneled in rich woods and with a view of the Kentucky countryside, Harry found it to be quite agreeable.

Not so much now, discussing the fall of Kingsman. Merlin and Eggsy had painted it to Harry in broad strokes, but this—getting into the nitty gritty details—had been put off while they recouped their losses and dealt with Poppy. As Arthur, it was Harry’s unpleasant task to delegate the things that needed to be done and give the orders where they needed to be given.

Thankfully, his partner was, and always had been, hypercompetent and organized. Harry counted his blessings once more as he relied on Merlin’s expertise.

Merlin’s frown was equally grave. “Nine Knights, not including the current four at our disposal. James is able to recruit, though I wouldn’t place him as fit for field duty as of yet—though that may change in time as Martin’s recovery and his own progresses. As Percival is still bed-ridden, I won’t hold him to the same recruitment drive as the rest. For one thing, he’s nowhere near coherent, and for another, Mags would have my head.”

Harry winced, thinking of Morgana’s justifiable temper. “Ancillary staff?”

“Almost all are prepared to make the move to Scotland and come back to work,” Merlin replied. “Those that aren’t have signed the usual severance packages, though there is a fleet of drivers operating out of the shopfront on Savile Row, willing to be eyes and ears in London.”

“Mm,” Harry said. “Our story for the shop?”

“Gas leak, something that had been building since the War and was missed upon inspection,” Merlin replied, thumbing through his clipboard. “Repairs are on track to be completed within the next month. We’ll reopen before the Christmas season is upon us, and begin taking our usual orders.”

“How many Knights did we lose to Chester?” Harry asked.

Merlin paused. Harry realized that he should probably rephrase the question, and he cleared his throat, sitting forward.

“How many were prepared to defect with him before V-Day?”

Merlin sighed, removing his spectacles and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “The usual suspects. Bors, Gawain, and Geraint were in his pocket deep enough that they might as well have been sewn into the lining. The neutral Knights, ones that didn’t feel strongly about us one way or another…it was anyone’s call. There is only one that I know of for sure that declined Chester’s oh-so-generous invitation.”

Harry’s frown deepened, and he nodded. “Were there any implants?”

“Not as such. We believe that Chester intended to lose any dead weight to the satellite broadcast before demanding anyone strong enough to withstand the onslaught be chipped for loyalty’s sake.” Merlin replaced his spectacles, regarding Harry with a serious look. “He intended the Knight’s Council be wiped out so that he could claim total control of Kingsman.”

“A bold move,” Harry replied, considering. “And given how ahead of us Valentine was, a safe bet on his part, as reluctant as I am to admit it.”

“Neither of them seemed willing to consider Eggsy a threat, which ended up working in our favor,” Merlin replied. “Galahad proved himself to be an asset long before he took the title.”

Harry allowed the praise to warm his chest, thinking of the young man who’d become his legacy. It was short-lived, however, as Merlin tapped on his tablet, bringing up a hologram between the two of them. A map of London formed itself, with red dots showcasing Kingsman properties sprinkled about the map.

“We’ve rebuilt the houses and placed the properties up for sale,” Merlin began, indicating the places where the missiles had struck and little circles began appearing in blue where he touched. “The sale of the houses is expected to come in at a profit, despite the costs to rebuild—as we didn’t outfit any of them as safehouses this time. Their location is known and could have been broadcast to other organizations. No longer safe to use.”

Harry nodded, noting his townhouse was among them. Merlin’s flat in Whitechapel was not, and he raised a brow as he reached up and indicated where said flat was located, without the circle to aid him. Merlin shrugged, a wry smile on his face.

“My flat was never in the lists, and I would have been considered staff. Much less dangerous.” His smile took on a flinty edge. “A mistake that cost them.”

“Indeed.” Harry rubbed his jaw, feeling the edges of his five o’clock shadow creeping in. “The estate is a wash, no doubt.”

“We’re keeping hold of the estate as a back up airfield and refueling station,” Merlin replied. “The missiles destroyed a lot, but with the right sort of rebuilding, we can make the hangars viable again, though we should probably rebrand the area as a nature preserve rather than a private house.”

“Clever,” Harry said, though Merlin hardly needed the praise. He was their quartermaster for good reason; his common sense and practicality were matched by his intelligence, and it was part of why Harry loved him. Harry could think of something and Merlin would be eight steps ahead of him, already thinking of ways to put the plan in place. The way his mind worked was both fascinating and almost intimidating to Harry.

“Harry,” Merlin said, his smile soft and his eyes gentle as he looked at Harry. “You’re looking besotted.”

“Well, that’s perhaps because I’m quite fond of you,” Harry replied. “I’m hardly needed as Arthur.”

“Nonsense,” Merlin said, high spots of color appearing on his cheekbones. “Someone has to throw their weight around to give the orders.”

“I remember you being able to bark orders quite well,” Harry replied, a slow smile curving his mouth.

“Cheeky,” Merlin huffed. “You know what I mean, though. They wouldn’t listen to me.”

“They will now,” Harry said. When Merlin blinked owlishly at him, he clarified. “We’re rebuilding from the ground up. Each Knight will have a seat on the Council. No more financial backers, not with the distillery. Once we’ve repaid Champ for the initial seed money and equipment, and we’ve settled our accounts, Kingsman will become truly autonomous.”

Merlin’s eyes glinted as he realized the implications. “You plan on molding them into your image.”

“Something like that,” Harry said.

“I quit.”

“ _Merlin_!” Harry’s tone was scandalized.

Merlin chuckled. “You’d be lost without me.”

“And that’s a fact,” Harry grumbled, putting a hand to his heart as though to calm the race of it. “Don’t scare an old man like that.”

“Please, the day you actually admit you’re old is the day you retire,” Merlin said, the barbs lacking anything like heat and containing more affection than most people would recognize at first. He inhaled, looking out the window. “We should look into quietly making purchases in Edinburgh and Glasgow for the Knights’ use, as well as finding different areas of London to engage properties for them to use as bases of operation.”

Harry nodded, the levity of the moment broken as he focused on it. “A good plan. As well as we work together in a hive, it’s not the end of the world if we get separated. Best that we have bolt holes everywhere. How long will that take?”

“Anywhere from six months to a year,” Merlin said. “We’re rebuilding on all fronts, but it’s going to take time. I can allocate funds to ease the red tape, but it will have to be done discreetly.”

“Ah, the bureaucratic side of things,” Harry said. “The side of things I hate dealing with.”

And yet, here he sat, doing just that. He had no doubt Thomas was smirking at him, wherever he was.

Merlin hummed, knowing Harry was far more action-oriented than the quartermaster tended to be. “Speaking of, I’ve drawn up a list of viable recruit prospects, though if the Knights we have can give suggestions, I’ll place them in the pool.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, his elbows on the padded arm rests and his long fingers steepled in front of him.

“We’ve agreed to train Tequila and Whiskey,” he said, thoughtfully. “Should we open training for R&D to interested techs?”

“We can run the idea past Champ, though after that stunt with Adams, I’m surprised he hasn’t taken you out at the knee for sniping his people,” Merlin said with a wry smile. “Too pretty for your own good.”

Harry chuckled. Eggsy had wasted no time regaling Merlin with Harry’s antics as he’d recovered. “Might be worth it, a sharing of ideas, so long as we promised to return them.”

Merlin tapped at his clipboard again. “Speaking of Adams, she had a request for me, in the same vein. She’d like us to take Nasha Roux with us when we do our first round of training.”

“Roux,” Harry said, frowning. Merlin called up the girl’s photo and relevant stats. “Ah, Lamb. I don’t see why not. Roxy and Eggsy get along with her fine, and while she seems a bit wild, perhaps the extra training will round her out with more discipline.”

Merlin nodded. “I thought so, though it might be best to leave that assessment private. I’ll forward along our answer to Adams when we’re done here.”

Harry nodded, his gaze turning toward the window. Merlin seemed to sense his restlessness, because a moment later he felt the pressure of Merlin’s hand taking his own as the wizard maneuvered his chair around the desk to stop beside him.

“I can hear you thinking,” Merlin said, twining his hand with Harry’s, linking their fingers. Harry felt the brush of Merlin’s ring, warm from the heat of his hand. “Talk to me.”

“Who was the one to definitively deny Chester?” Harry asked. The question had been nagging at his mind even as they covered their bases. He glanced at Merlin to find the wizard watching him.

“You know who it was,” Merlin said. His tone said he wasn’t guessing; he and Harry had functioned as handler and agent as well as partners for long enough that they might as well be two halves of a whole.

“I can make the assumption,” Harry said. “But…I need to see it.”

“Do you?” Merlin asked quietly. “I would like to weigh in that you don’t.”

“How many times did you watch the footage of the church?” Harry countered.

His voice hadn’t raised, nor did Merlin draw away. They were speaking as equals, and though the room grew heavy as they spoke, it wasn’t the crackling, teeth-grinding energy of their tempers flaring. Instead, it was the weight of their own survival covering them like lead-filled cloaks.

Merlin inhaled, glancing away. “Too many.”

“I know,” Harry said. He brought Merlin’s knuckles to his lips, then pressed his cheek to the back of Merlin’s hand. “And so you know that I need that closure. If only for myself.”

Merlin turned his hand, cupping Harry’s face for just a moment. He studied Harry, his hazel eyes filled to the brim with the depth of his concern, and then he nodded. He moved again to the other side of the desk, rolling to the side board where he collected two glasses and a bottle of that fine Statesman whiskey. Setting his burden on the desk between them, he gestured at Harry, indicating that he should pour.

Harry did, splashing generous amounts of the amber liquid into each glass before capping the bottle and setting it aside. He pushed one of the glasses toward Merlin and sat back as Merlin tapped through his tablet.

“I don’t have the actual moment,” Merlin said. “They know that I don’t have cameras in the lavatories and they used it to their advantage. I didn’t find him until…after.”

Harry heard the frustration in Merlin’s voice, but Merlin dimmed the lights and played what video he had.

“I sent messages to those I considered safe to tell. Morgana evacuated the medical personnel, Percival was in Bruges on mission at the time, and Tristan had just returned from his own mission in South Korea, infiltrating Valentine’s supply lines. We couldn’t have stopped them if we tried, but I felt it was safer to have someone lay eyes on the production facilities all the same. Valentine had sped up production before I could locate it, and even destroying the factory wouldn’t have slowed him down. He had enough supply to move production elsewhere without losing steam.”

On the holographic screen called up between them, Tristan stood in the hallway just inside the estate’s first floor main entrance, the tense line of his shoulders translating to the conversation he was having on his mobile.

“Audio?” Harry asked.

Merlin shook his head. “I’d diverted all my processing power to stopping the satellites Valentine was using to transmit at the time. I’m lucky the video ran on separate feeds. A mistake I’ve since corrected with the new plans for Scotland.”

Harry nodded, watching Tristan speak, his desperation clear on his face. “Who was he calling?”

“Garima,” Merlin replied.

Harry nodded, his eyes steely as he continued watching. Garima would have been Tristan’s first priority; as his daughter, she’d always come first in his world. Even Kingsman hadn’t dulled that purpose, making Tristan a careful, methodical man. It had colored his whole career as a Knight.

If you wanted to take a risk, you’d bring Percival or young Lancelot with you on mission. If you wanted to come home alive, you’d bring Tristan.

The call was brief, but heartfelt. Likely as not, he was doing the same thing Eggsy had done, telling her to get her mother to safety and lock each other in separate rooms. Tristan hung up the phone, stuffing it into his suit pocket as he tapped his cigarette box on the heel of his palm. He was agitated, watching up and down the hallway as he frowned, just short of pacing.

“What’s the timestamp on this?” Harry asked, his voice hushed as he watched Tristan fidget.

“Approximately four hours after we’d discovered that Chester was a traitor. Eggsy had hidden his body, and we took the jet that was prepped for his use, so he wasn’t discovered until we’d returned. Tristan was found shortly after, during a standard sweep of the grounds.”

Harry nodded, then sat a little forward as Tristan’s body language changed. Instead of agitation, he radiated a cool air of calm that was night and day to his previous behavior. He’d been standing in the hallway for a little under twenty minutes, but something had him on guard.

Harry saw why as Merlin brought up another video feed, showing Gawain, Bors, and Geraint walking toward Tristan. There was some clarity of purpose in their motion, accentuating their stride as they bore down on the Knight in question. It wasn’t hard to see that he was their target, and as they stopped in a cluster in front of Tristan, it was clear that the Knight knew it.

Harry could feel his jaw clench as Gawain thumped two thick fingers into Tristan’s chest and shoved a little as he spoke. While there was no audio, it was clear that this was old grievances being dug up under the pretense of a new world order. Tristan leaned back, his hands in his pockets, and Harry watched as he coolly assessed the men in front of him.

Tristan was level-headed, but surely—

Harry remembered sparring with him, a long time ago. While Tristan was a good fighter, it was hard for him to take any risks that weren’t a surefire way to get him home alive. He’d held himself back even then, a core of violence wrapped in caution. Harry rubbed his jaw, watching Tristan give each man a once-over, as though considering his odds.

His odds weren’t good. Kingsman training was constant, thorough, and brutal, with Knights honing their skills long after their initial selection for the title. Gawain, Bors, and Geraint took pride in their CQC abilities, and even Harry would be hard pressed to take on all three at once. He might get out of it alive, but certainly not uninjured. It wasn’t a fight he would be keen to take on, temper or no.

Tristan’s face showed a similar line of thinking to Harry’s because he shrugged, stepping backward a pace and tapping out a cigarette from the case he still held in one hand. Placing the filter between his lips, he gestured for a light, which Geraint provided him. No sense in letting someone think you were priming your lighter, after all.

He took a long drag, sending the smoke above his head in a thin cloud, and then jerked his head to the side, in a ‘well, let’s get on with it then’ gesture. All three of them seemed surprised, but they glanced up and down the hallways for passersby, then followed Tristan. He stopped in front of the lavatory, took another drag, and then exhaled as he glanced straight at the camera. His look spoke volumes, more than any audio could. He wanted Merlin—or someone, _anyone_ , to see this.

It lasted less than a second, and then Tristan straightened his coat, squared his shoulders, and pushed into the lavatory. The other three followed suit, and the door swung shut.

Harry took his glass in hand, and Merlin did the same. Meeting each other’s eye, they nodded.

“To Tristan,” Harry said. Merlin echoed the sentiment. The fine whiskey tasted like ashes as Harry drank the whole of it down, setting his empty glass on the desk beside him.

Merlin fast-forwarded the recording. Less than five minutes later, Gawain, Bors, and Geraint emerged, looking about to see if they’d been noticed. Harry didn’t have to guess what had happened. He exhaled, sharp and full of anger, and directed his gaze to Merlin.

“What happened to them?”

“They were to accompany Chester to Valentine’s safehouse, but by that time we’d taken off and had left them behind. There was no jet to catch, and while they were authorized pilots, I’d overridden manual controls when I left, specifically for that reason.” Merlin rubbed at his jaw. “They had no chip, so there weren’t precautions to be taken when Valentine released the signal. They’d been issued Valentine SIM cards, specifically so they would get the V-Day warnings, but…”

Harry followed Merlin’s line of thinking. “You’re operating on the assumption that Chester meant to leave his three most loyal retainers behind so that they’d fight to the death.”

Merlin nodded, frowning down at his clipboard. “From what we know of Chester and his usual _modus operandi_ , it’s well within the realm of possibility. Likely he intended to come back and claim the last man standing as his right hand, while making a point about how much he mattered in Chester’s brave new world.”

Harry closed his eye, exhaling slowly. “What happened?”

“They went berserk in the hangar bay.” Merlin called up another video feed as he spoke.

Harry watched Merlin, Roxy, and Eggsy frantically climb into Chester’s personal jet as Merlin fast-forwarded through the feed. The jet taxied out of the underground runway, heading right to the source of their problem at the time. Merlin slowed the feed when the timer had rolled to about the twenty-minute mark.

Gawain, Bors and Geraint stopped short as they reached the bay where Chester’s plane should have been. All three men seemed confused by its absence for a brief moment, and then…

Harry felt a sick, familiar feeling in his stomach as the chip took hold. It wasn’t hard to imagine; he remembered the blank, red rage that descended like a veil over his eyes, leaving him with one option. One desire. He could use his hands to destroy, to ruin. He was built better and stronger than those around him, and he was trained to use it.

What was worse, he’d _wanted_ to use it. He remembered fighting hand-to-hand, wanting to use his thumbs to press hard into the eyes of his assailant, needing to end the life of everyone in the room, salivating at the prospect, recoiling as a knife plunged into his shoulder—

Unease churned in his gut, and he was glad that the feed didn’t have sound—even though Merlin had been unaffected in that way with the feed in the church, he wasn’t sure that he himself wouldn’t be affected a second time. The memories rushed over him and through him, making him tense up as he took a sharp breath through his nose.

He hadn’t realized his distress had shown on his face until Merlin’s fingers touched his jaw, startling him. Merlin had paused the feed, his hazel eyes dark with concern for his partner. Harry swallowed, taking a deep breath as he leaned into Merlin’s palm. How long they sat there, Harry wasn’t sure. But Merlin murmured to him, something soft and nonsense-sounding in Gaelic, and Harry leaned forward, putting his head on Merlin’s shoulder.

A rare moment of weakness, a moment of indecision, could get him killed in the field. In here, it was a reminder that despite everything, he was alive. He was here, breathing in Merlin’s scent and feeling Merlin trace patterns across his scalp. He breathed deep, centering himself.

When he pulled back, Merlin studied his face for a long moment. Harry swallowed, and opted for a glass of water instead of the whiskey they’d been drinking. Rising, he poured one for them both. He took a long draught from his glass, then filled it again and returned to his seat.

“Are you—”

“I don’t know,” Harry said softly. “But it has passed.”

Merlin’s concern was written in the wrinkle of his brow and the press of his fingers against Harry’s jaw once again. Harry reached up, linking their fingers and drawing Merlin’s hand to his lips, placing a gentle kiss to the back of his wizard’s hand.

“It has passed,” he repeated, giving Merlin a smile. “I need to see the end of this.”

Merlin took a deep breath, as though to argue, but seemed to think it would be better put to use another time. Harry knew that the conversation was hardly done, but for now, they would table it in Tristan’s memory, devoting their time to closure regarding his death.

Merlin resumed playback on the video feed.

The change, on the outside, was as subtle as it was instantaneous. The three Knights stiffened, then burst into motion, their training making the fight last far longer than it would have if there had been civilians about. The notion pinged Harry’s awareness, and he searched the other parts of the hangar for movement.

“Where are the ground crews?” he asked. Kingsman employed four full ground crews on staff for take-off and landing, two teams that rotated between night and day. There should have been at least sixteen other people in the hangar.

Merlin’s smile was telling. The sly edges of it made Harry remember why he’d fallen in love with Kingsman’s quartermaster long ago.

“I’d sent them home once they did their final FOD walk to prevent anyone following us,” Merlin replied. “Told them it was for their own safety. They missed a lot of the madness in London, as most of them have residences in the countryside, and the ones that didn’t took cover in the villages just outside the estate. There was one scuffle, but it was due to drunkenness, not the chips.”

“Thank god,” Harry said, watching the fight unfold.

It wasn’t short-lived, but it was brutal. Pistol fire impacted the bullet-resistant fiber of the suits, ricocheting off into the distance. When pistols were deemed useless, they tossed them aside and went for knives. Bors clicked his heels together, bringing the poisoned shoe blade to bear against Geraint, catching him across the cheek. Geraint slowed to a stop, jerking as the poison took hold and slumping to the floor. Bors turned, only for Gawain to meet him, having scooped up a discarded pistol from the floor and putting it against his forehead.

Harry winced as Gawain pulled the trigger. Bors slumped to the side, leaving Gawain alone. He swayed, confused, as there were no more targets for his wrath.

“What’s he doing?” Harry asked.

“A side effect of the chips,” Merlin replied. “They didn’t account for someone to be the last man standing and not succumb to their wounds. He’s confused, unsure. He can’t find anyone to fight…yet.”

As Merlin spoke, Gawain’s head snapped up as another target entered the hangar.

“Martin.” Harry’s eye locked on the tall, composed figure striding toward the jets, as yet unaware that anything was amiss.

“I’d asked him to join us when he was able to get away from Bruges, but it took him longer with the chaos at the airports,” Merlin said. “He crashed another prop plane on the lawn.”

“Of course he did,” Harry said, his lips twitching.

Martin caught sight of Gawain and reached for his Tokarev as the burlier Knight charged him at a dead run. His shots were steady, but Gawain jerked from one side to the other, moving with an animalistic pace that was as unsettling as it was unpredictable. Martin frowned and tossed his pistol aside, drawing his saber.

“Martin, you daft fool.” Harry shook his head, but he knew that in this, at least, Martin was more than a match for Gawain. Gawain charged in, throwing a sweeping kick that Martin seemed to flow around. Gawain landed with his back to Martin and Martin ran him through. Gawain’s end was as fitting as any, and honestly too good for him, in Harry’s opinion. A clean death wasn’t warranted.

When he was sure his target was gone, Martin pulled Gawain’s phone from his coat pocket. He dropped it to the ground and stamped on it hard enough to break it, then did the same for Bors and Geraint. He shook his head and wiped off his hands before he turned back to his original mission.

“He’s not going to attempt to take a plane out by himself?” Harry asked.

“I’d taught him to fly the smaller Lears that only require one pilot,” Merlin replied. “He was going to follow me one way or another. I had Roxy with me.”

Harry nodded, remembering. He focused on Martin again. His colleague was loading more first aid into the plane, and as he did, a thought occurred to Harry.

“Why wasn’t Martin affected?” he asked. “The signal was obviously still going, but Martin seemed fine.”

Merlin tapped his own ear lobe gently. “Firing range quality ear plugs. He’d modified them before he left in an attempt to stop the signal. It did, for the most part. He was still affected, but he was able to maintain that thread of control long enough to get things done.”

Harry shook his head, feeling a well of pride for the very first of his protégés. The equivalent of sailing a ship into siren infested seas, his ears stuffed with beeswax. Brave, but foolish.

Maybe he _was_ molding them into his own image, he thought.

The jet taxied out of the runway, shooting up and out of the underground hangar as Martin chased his friends. Merlin stopped the tape.

“Have Kalpana and Garima been notified?” Harry asked quietly.

Merlin nodded. “Once the Council elected a new Arthur, business…returned to normal, such as it was.”

His voice grew distant, and Harry saw the strain of the two years he’d been gone etched across the wizard’s face. He inhaled, reaching out for Merlin. This time it was the wizard who sought comfort, and Harry gathered his partner close. They’d played lost and found for far too long.

“I thought I was going mad,” Merlin admitted softly. “The world didn’t make sense any longer.”

“It still doesn’t, sometimes,” Harry said, his voice just as gentle. “But we’re here, now.”

Merlin nodded, swallowing as he sat back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes for a moment. It was still a heavy thing between them, his supposed death and eventual rebirth. Sometimes, for Harry, it felt as though he were living in someone else’s skin, supposed to take over and live a life that was outside of what he knew, like he was wearing shoes that were a size too small and told that it wasn’t the cobbler’s fault they didn’t fit. In the next breath he would feel almost like he did when his memories returned to him fully, in the jungle in Cambodia—fully cognizant and full of rage at the circumstances surrounding his violent departure from Kingsman.

They hadn’t talked about how it was affecting the other, or their relationship, this fragile thing linked by the black sapphires adorning Merlin’s ring finger in a dark promise of a life carved out for themselves, at last.

“Merlin,” Harry said, swallowing. His tone must have revealed some of his thoughts because he realized he had Merlin’s full attention, and he almost froze, the words pushed into a lump in his throat.

He pressed on. Harry Hart was many things, but a coward wasn’t on the list.

“I think, perhaps, that I should consider some type of…of help,” he said quietly. “I cannot do this alone, nor can you, and I wouldn’t expect you to do it. I want Kingsman to be fully functional, and that means—”

Merlin was smiling. Harry wet his lips, glancing up at him and Merlin just reached out and squeezed his hands.

“It’s a fine idea,” he said softly. “And it’s a step I didn’t think you’d take without me clubbing you over the head about it. Do you…?”

He trailed off, and Harry squeezed his hands in return.

“Do you want to go together?” he asked.

“Perhaps that’s best,” Harry replied. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“Mum will,” Merlin replied. “I’ll call her later.”

Harry pulled Merlin close, and in the wake of their fallen comrades, they took comfort in one another. Kingsman would survive, _had_ to survive, but her losses had been heavy. It was serendipity at best that the chips had fallen where they had. That Eggsy had been the one to discover Chester’s betrayal, that James clung to the hope that someone would come for him in Valentine’s cells, that Harry had survived an almost certainly fatal gunshot wound, that Martin still stubbornly clung to this mortal coil and to the family that loved him, that Merlin still breathed in his arms – all of it was the best case of a worst-case scenario. They had each other.

They would make it.

* * *

Almost three weeks later, Harry strode down to Whiskey’s labs, summoned by Merlin. He entered the sterile work area and stopped by Merlin’s side, seeing both of the quartermasters with a frown on their faces. Whiskey sat beside Merlin, calling up what looked to be esoteric data, but what must have made sense to them, because they both frowned harder.

“What is it?” he asked. Merlin turned at the sound of his voice, beckoning him closer. Harry stopped beside Merlin’s chair, his hand resting gently on Merlin’s shoulder.

“You remember the footage on the bridge that I was able to recover from Martin’s spectacles?” Merlin asked.

Harry could hardly forget. The woman who had called herself War haunted his thoughts. Not only had she known about Kingsman, she’d known Harry by name. Not just his code name, his full name. Unease churned in his gut still; if it had been him instead of Martin, would the outcome have been different?

He didn’t, couldn’t know. Martin was barely conscious for more than a few hours at a time. It would take more than coming out of the coma for him to recover, though that had been a huge hurdle.

Harry didn’t wish that pain upon Percival. If he could have meted it to himself instead, he would have. Now, though, he focused on the picture of the London Bridge that Merlin called up.

“I’ve been monitoring the investigation into the Bridge,” Merlin said. He called up recent pictures, still showing where the sides had been sheared off by War’s blade. “They haven’t determined what cut the bridge, nor do they have the footage that we do. So it’s been slower going for them. But I’ve found something interesting.”

Merlin’s fingers darted over the keys, minimizing the photos and calling up another file.

“Out of curiosity, I took a dip into Scotland Yard’s servers to find out who was assigned to the bridge and look who I found.”

Harry felt like his chest was compressed. The woman before him was older than Eggsy by a few years, her dark brown hair bound up behind her head in a knot. Intelligent brown eyes dared whoever was looking at the photo to challenge her, her mouth was an intense line, her full lips compressed into seriousness as her photo was taken. She looked Indian, but he knew she drew her complexion from her mother, not her father. He knew it in his bones.

It wasn’t just the woman that triggered his lack of oxygen. It was her name.

_Garima Barghava._

“Is that…?” His voice sounded like a croak to his own ears, and Merlin gave a solemn nod.

“It is. I went back and checked before I called you in here. Wes’s daughter has made a name for herself.” Merlin’s smile was wry. “She’s gotten placed here because she keeps pushing for more stringent corruption investigations, after a case in 2012 went sideways and she wasn’t allowed to give a full report. Nasty business.”

Harry huffed a quiet laugh. “Sounds like she takes after Kalpana more than we thought.”

“You’d be surprised.” Merlin called up her file once more, showing her accomplishments. “Graduated at the top of her class at Strathclyde, came back from Scotland and applied directly to the Yard. Rejected, but accepted as a police officer. She had a meteoric rise through the ranks and was known for her dedicated and thorough investigative work. With the requirements for applicants loosening, she applied again in 2011 and was accepted. She immediately stepped on the wrong toes for insisting on following procedure and was permanently pigeonholed into doing their grunt work.”

Harry’s brows jumped. “And she’s put up with it?”

“For years,” Merlin said. “She takes pride in her work, and her reports are meticulous and careful, but she’s not getting any recognition for it where she’s at. She’d need a lucky break.”

“Or for you to find her while she investigates one of our sites,” Harry remarked. “Does she know what she’s stumbled on?”

“No,” Merlin said. “She keeps her notes on her phone and in cloud storage, so I was able to access them. She knows that what happened on the bridge wasn’t normal, and she suspects the footage was tampered with, but she can’t tell how. I’d be surprised if she could at a glance.”

“Stop being smug,” Harry said. Merlin snorted.

“She seems to have more reports on War,” Merlin said, after a moment. “She’s been compiling strange sightings, and the same night someone watched a woman matching War’s description hauling herself out of the Thames with what looked to be a gut wound.”

Harry frowned. “We didn’t see Martin strike a blow that would have injured her like that.”

“Exactly,” Merlin said. “Which leads me to believe that War was either injured in the fall or she was using something that was hurting her far more than she let on while facing an opponent. I’ll need to get with Morgana and discuss it, and see if there’s a possibility of it being a mixture of adrenaline and other factors, but it seems likely.”

“Your point was, I believe, that she’s far closer than anyone else has gotten to the identity of Martin’s assailant,” Harry said.

Whiskey, who had been typing furiously while they talked, chose that moment to speak up. “We think so. But it’s going to take a lot more digging to find out if she’s correct or if she’s just chasing red herrings. The thing we don’t know is if War is working alone.”

“With the technology at her disposal, I doubt she is,” Merlin said. Whiskey nodded, seeming to be in agreement. “The problem is, nothing we have matches any record of any groups, either Kingsman or Statesman, have come across. We’re waiting on Franklin to cross-reference through the Sons databases, but for now we’re also coming up with dead ends, and I don’t like it.”

Whiskey nodded. “Nothing like more questions to give you an ulcer.”

Harry hummed agreement. “Our best lead is Garima, then?”

“She is,” Merlin said. “I’m going to tap Galahad to bring her in. We don’t know if the group that funds War and her technology won’t be watching, but we need to get her into hiding.”

“Then I’ll go as well,” Harry said.

“You seem to have forgotten that when I say ‘Galahad’ I no longer mean _you_ ,” Merlin said, lifting a brow at him.

“Surely you don’t expect me to sit idle while my god daughter might be in danger,” Harry said.

“We were all at her christening, you muppet,” Merlin grumbled. “We’re all her godfathers.”

“Besides,” Harry said as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to Merlin’s temple. “It’s rude for a Knight to not at least meet their prospect before offering them a chance at Knighthood.”

“You can’t mean—”

“She’ll make a wonderful Tristan,” Harry said with a smile as he turned for the door. “I’ll gather Galahad and we’ll be on the first flight out.”

“You can’t make them all legacies!” Merlin called after Harry’s retreating back.

“It worked for Galahad and Lancelot,” Harry called back over his shoulder. The door shut on Merlin’s fond grumbling, and Harry went to find his protégé.

* * *

“Is he always like that?” Whiskey asked, glancing at the door that Arthur had just exited through.

“Is all my hair gone?” Merlin grumbled, going back to his keyboard.

“…ah,” Whiskey said. After a moment, she glanced at Merlin, whose profile was lit with the monitor’s glow. “It’s good to have him back, isn’t it?”

“Lord, you have no idea,” Merlin breathed. He hadn’t turned her way, but Whiskey could see the corners of his mouth soften, the wrinkle of his forehead smoothing itself.

Whiskey felt the edges of a smile creep onto her face, and she turned back to her work.

* * *

Garima sighed and rubbed at her eyes. The computer was giving her eye-strain, and she knew it wasn’t going to get any better if she tried to push through it. Perhaps it was time to pack it in for the night. She’d done all she could for today. A hot meal, a shower, and sleep, and she could get back at it in the morning.

She could already hear her mother fussing.

She shut down her terminal, straightening the mess on her desk before she rose. Her back made a protest, and she stretched, feeling her spine pop. That was definitely a sign that she was needing a break.

Gathering her coat and her bag, she locked her office and headed for the tube. It would be a long ride to her flat, but it was free, and she wasn’t about to start spending money on a car she didn’t need right at the moment. The air was nippy, and she turned up her lapels as she hurried to the entrance of the subway.

While she rode, questions turned in her mind. She’d been this way since she was a toddler, both her mother and father had assured her. Always needing to know the answer, even if she couldn’t understand it all the way.

Who was the woman in the Thames? The way she moved, it was like someone had stabbed her in the stomach. She’d watched her stagger down the street on CCTV footage, but lost sight of her when a black SUV pulled up.

Running the plates had been no use. The car was registered to a company that existed on paper but had no actual holdings. A phantom company. It provided less answers and more questions. Garima sighed.

While she might get a hot meal and a shower, it was unlikely her churning thoughts would let her get some sleep.

Her stop arrived faster than she realized, and she exited off and climbed the stairway up onto the corner that would take her home. She started walking, her bag slung over her shoulder and her hand in her pocket, curled around the little can of PAVA spray.

While not on duty, Garima was no fool, and the can was a gift from her father before he’d passed. It would be enough for her to get home with, and it would be better than carrying her firearm. She was an excellent shot, but she’d never needed the weapon in any investigation—

She suspected it was because she’d insulted Inspector Davies by insisting that she do the investigation by the book, and she was still paying for it today. The closest she’d gotten to any real policework had been this London Bridge case, granted to her because everyone else was working the clean up of the drug scandal that had rocked the world almost six months prior.

Two years before that, and people had been killing each other outright in the streets, fighting like animals. She didn’t know why the world seemed to take that dip into madness every once in a while, but it had, ever since she’d started here.

Her racing thoughts stilled, however, when she realized her neighborhood was far too quiet.

It was only about eleven, and there should still be people walking the streets, coming home from the pubs, but it was hushed. She felt that little sliver of premonition shiver down her spine and settle into her gut.

Something was wrong.

She let herself into her flat, easing out of her heels and into flats, in case she needed to run. Her father’s practical lessons rang in her head and she moved to the closet where she kept her supplies.

Her father had nicknamed it her ‘getaway’ bag, and it contained everything she’d need to get going in an emergency. Cash to get her where she was going, clothing, high energy and calorie dense snacks, medication, and a spare burner phone. She could hear the floorboards next door creak as she moved for the closet, and she stopped.

She headed to the kitchen instead. Her flat was on the ground floor, and had a lovely view of the garden behind the building. It was currently dark outside, and she turned on the kitchen light and made as though to start preparing a cup of tea.

Her whole body was keyed up and she forced herself into a state of calm, breathing out deliberately as she set the kettle on to boil. She dug through the fridge for something to eat, feeling the hairs rise on the back of her neck.

The lights went out.

She suppressed the instinct to scream, instead dropping to the floor. There was a crack, and then a pop, echoing through the neighborhood. Garima felt glass rain onto her head and the linoleum of the kitchen floor, and she scooted away from the windows, shaking glass out of her hair.

Someone was taking shots at her.

She breathed through her nose, bellying across the floor and toward the closet. She needed an escape route, but she didn’t know where to go.

There was a scream out on the street, and another shot made a crack through the night, and she moved faster. Once again, the world had gone mad, and she was in the middle of it, somehow. A shot broke the glass of her living room window, the bullet embedding itself into the wood of her floor. She got the closet door open and pulled the backpack from its spot in the back.

She pulled her father’s medallion from her shirt, the little metal disc warm from her skin. He’d said to call that number if she needed anything and something had happened to him, so she crawled over to where she’d left her mobile.

No service. She swore quietly and crawled to her land line. The line was dead.

Garima swore again, every word she knew.

Two more shots, one in the kitchen and one from her bedroom window. This wasn’t good. It sounded like she had been cornered in her flat, with no escape.

She inhaled, moving into the kitchen and avoiding the broken glass glittering on the floor in the moonlight. She wasn’t about to go without a fight, even with terror filling her insides with lead. She hadn’t brought her sidearm home, there was no need—

She found her largest kitchen knife and wrapped her hand around the handle, her sweating palm making her grip slide along the rosewood.

She froze as she heard the lock of her kitchen door’s deadbolt turn. Someone was breaking in. She inhaled, ducking deeper into the shadows of the kitchen.

“See, didn’t need a key,” said a low voice.

“That’s all well and good, but she could be gone by now,” said another. It was familiar, something tickling at her awareness. “If she’s in the wind—”

The shadows moved forward, one large and one smaller, and she focused on the smaller one. If she could overpower him, she might have a chance against the taller one. She stepped forward, grabbing the shorter guy’s arm—

And she promptly sailed arse over teakettle through the air, landing on her back hard enough to drive the air from her lungs. She kicked out with both feet, catching the smaller one in the gut, and he doubled over, wheezing.

“Stop,” he panted. “Stop, stop. It’s ok, we’re friends.”

“You broke into my bloody flat!” Her voice was a fierce screamy whisper, but she subsided long enough to hear what they had to say. “You bloody muppet, what did you think was going to happen?”

"I highly doubt you'd have opened the door so soon after sniper fire took out four of your five windows, Ms. Bhargava." The voice to her right was so familiar, it made her squint at the shadows. She knew this man, she just wasn’t sure from where.

"Besides, we didn't want to alert the lot that's hidden inside your neighbor’s flat. But we can forget that now, can't we?!" The shorter man rubbed at his stomach and took an experimental inhale. Seeming satisfied, he stepped back a little, head swiveling as he got what looks he could out of the windows.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I knew your father, and your mother. I know you, too. This isn’t a place to explain, however,” he said.

“Arthur, we need to go,” the smaller one said. “There’s chatter on their radios, they think they got her.”

“Still, the rats do need to be forced from their holes,” the taller man said. He withdrew what looked like a keyfob from his coat pocket and pressed a button. There was a popping sound, then a muffled curse from next door, and then a hushed argument. The taller man extended a hand to her. “That’s our cue to leave unless you’d like to fight them. Shall we?”

Garima exhaled. This was her life now, apparently. “Fine. All right. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I’m not sure why I’m doing this, but fine.”

She couldn’t quite tell, but it sounded like he was smiling as he spoke. He helped her to her feet, grabbing her backpack for her. "You take after your father."

"I'm starting to wonder if that's such a good thing if he was hanging about with you."

"An entirely valid concern." He led the way to the kitchen door. “This way is clear, come along.”

She let him lead her out into the night, the smaller man behind them. They shut the door and darted through the shadowy garden, using the lack of street lamps as cover. The moon wasn’t full enough to provide a lot of light, but they didn’t need to go very far. Two streets over, they stopped in the shadows of an alleyway, breathing hard.

The rumble of an engine made her tense up, but it seemed to have been what the men were waiting for. The taller man strode to the back of the black cab that rounded the corner, the lights off. He opened the door and ushered her into the back seat. He and the smaller man climbed in behind her, and the car sped into the night. When they were far enough away from her flat that she could breathe a little easier, the lights in the back of the cab rose.

Garima felt like she was going to pass out. She recognized the taller man, seated across from her, legs crossed at the knee, hands clasped over the handle of an umbrella. It was a face she remembered from her christening, and any time her father could get him to come ‘round.

An unruly curl of hair had drifted into his face, brushing his spectacles. A lone brown eye seemed to have lost its partner, a black glass lens fitted where the other should be. He wore an expensively tailored dark blue suit, and much like the cab they rode in, looked more ready for a business meeting than breaking into her flat at a quarter to midnight.

But…like her father, he was _dead_. She and her mother had attended his funeral.

“Uncle Harry?” she said, her voice quiet, as though someone had hold of her throat.

“You’ll have to pardon me for dropping in,” he said, the corners of his mouth kicking up in a smile. “I would have phoned, but who knows what state I’d have found your flat in if I’d done that. Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, then felt the wetness running from her temple. She touched her hand to it and her fingertips came away red with blood.

“Looks like she might’ve got hit,” the other man said. Clad in a similar expensively tailored suit like Harry’s, he was younger than her, with a mischievous sort of face—the kind of face her mother liked as a leading man. Like he had a secret and he was having great fun keeping it.

“The glass,” she said softly. “The first window shattered right over me.”

“You gonna kick me in the stomach again if I look?” the young man asked. She shook her head and he swapped seats, moving to sit next to her. He reached beneath the seat, pulled a first aid kit free, and popped it open. While he brushed back her hair to look at the cut, she focused again on Harry.

“You’ll pardon my employee,” Harry said, lips twitching. “Eggsy is very straightforward.”

“At least one of you is,” she said. She could feel her hands starting to shake—shock, perhaps. “Will you tell me what’s going on?”

“Yes.” When he didn’t begin speaking immediately, she made an imperious gesture at him. “We’re going somewhere a bit safer to talk, that’s all.”

The cab was moving through London, merging with traffic, and she realized they were heading towards Heathrow.

“The airport?” she asked.

“The men who did this aren’t much in the way of polite,” Eggsy said as he carefully applied disinfectant to her wound. He spoke with a rough accent, but it was comforting, really. Not all posh and polish, his presence was something that she was used to, questioning people on the street.

“They likely won’t stop attempting to hurt you until you’re dead,” Harry said. “We think they believe you know something they don’t want you to know.”

“What?” She felt Eggsy putting small butterfly bandages on her wound to hold it closed.

“The London Bridge incident. When the Golden Circle cartel attempted to hold the world hostage,” Harry said.

“You know more about that,” she guessed, realizing she was right on the mark by how his mouth lost its genial curve. “Is that why you’re here?”

“Partially,” he said. “Partially because your father would haunt me if harm came to you and I could stop it.”

There had been a small part of her, a part of her that was still five years old and remembered how her father swung her up into his arms whenever he came home, that had hoped. That had wished and prayed with all her might, that Harry wasn’t the only man to return from the dead. She would take her father missing an eye. She would take him missing anything, so long as he was still there.

Hot tears welled up, and she looked away. The streetlamps blurred as she felt the weight of her grief descend upon her, almost as fresh as the day she’d learned he’d died. It was cruel, to hold out hope he had survived. Only a nudge to her hand made her return her attention to the front, to find Eggsy holding out a handkerchief to her.

“We want you to come with us,” Eggsy said as she blotted at her eyes. “Because you know more about the bridge than whoever was chasing you would like, and that puts you in danger. Not even the police can protect you—look how they evaded them and cleared the whole damn street.”

“And you can protect me where the police can’t,” she said, her tone disbelieving. “My father was a tailor. You’re tailors. What can you possibly hope to do?”

“Your father was much more than a tailor,” Harry replied. “And, given the chance, you can be much more than someone who gets the shit end of the stick because she offended the wrong person at Scotland Yard.”

She stiffened.

“I know a lot more than you think, Garima,” Harry said. “I know that you have the same smart and methodical approach to your job that Wes did. I know that you do your best work, every day, because if you did anything less, you’d feel like you’d failed. You want to be a police officer who helps people, not someone who plays office politics in the hopes of a cushy desk job.”

Harry nodded out the window. She turned and looked, realizing they’d driven onto an access road for a hangar at Heathrow.

“Your father would be proud of you,” he said. “But he’d also want something more for you. If you accept my offer, you can achieve your goal. You can be so much more than you are at the Yard. Your potential is wasted there in the office.”

“I—”

She opened her mouth, closed it. She closed her eyes, leaning her head back on the seat.

“If I say no?” she asked.

“We’ll help you find employment elsewhere,” Harry said. “Though it wouldn’t be until after this threat has been countered. Part of your safety means resigning from Scotland Yard.”

She blew out a breath. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“You didn’t ask what you’d get if you say yes,” Eggsy said.

She shrugged. “I’m weighing my options. And wondering what my father would do.”

“He accepted our offer,” Harry replied. “But that was before you were born.”

She nodded. “May I contact my mother?”

“Yes,” Harry replied. “We have secure channels for that, and we have eyes on her cottage in Alsace. But Kalpana can more than handle herself.”

“She can,” Garima said with a small huff as she opened her eyes and sat up. “All right. Fine. I accept your offer. What comes next?”

“The best job interview in the world,” Eggsy said. He grinned at her as the cab slowed next to a private jet, long and sleek, waiting on the tarmac for them.

“And the most dangerous,” Harry added. He climbed out of the cab, extending a hand to help her out. “But I have a feeling you’ll succeed.”

Garima felt the icy wind hit her face as she stepped out of the cab, and it provided a sense of clarity. She could do this. For her father.

For herself.

“Then let’s go,” she said.

Harry smiled and beckoned for her to follow.

* * *

“Kneel,” He said.

War dropped to her knees, her head bowed as she prostrated herself before Him.

“You disobeyed me,” He said. The Lion’s voice was quiet, not the roar of anger she’d expected. Disappointment was a far better tool; she could feel it lashing at her insides as she bowed her head lower. “What were your instructions?”

“I was to observe,” she said, slowly. “I was to wait. Kingsman should not have known that the Riders were there.”

“You can repeat instructions, but are you truly aware of what you’re supposed to do?” He asked. Bitterness rose in her, and she swallowed.

“I am sorry, my lord,” she replied. “I thought only to—”

“To claim glory for yourself,” He finished her sentence for her. “And you returned not only battered and defeated, but you managed to throw two whole squads into their jaws for them to spit out. You aren’t ready. And you weren’t.”

“I was!” She clamped down on the traitorous reply before more of it damned her.

“You were _not_ ,” He said. “Not only were you unsuccessful in capturing or killing any of them, you lost the fight to a man who was trained by the man you sought. If the whelp could tear you apart, how would you fare against the full-grown wolf, full of the wisdom of age and experience?”

She remained silent, duly chastised. He watched her for a moment, His seat in the chamber hiding His face in shadow. She pressed her forehead to the cool stone of the floor and waited.

“You will be pulled from the field for now. You will go back to basics and train more in the art of following orders. Our chapter in Smolensk will receive you, and you will drill with the units there in cold weather maneuvers until I call you back to My side.”

She swallowed hard. “As You will it, my lord.”

Anger burned inside her, rage making her heart thunder in her ears.

“Leave Me,” He said. She rose, her eyes on the floor. “Keep hold of that anger. It will keep you warm in Russia.”

War departed her master, seething with hatred for Harry Hart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet another of our children (as always, I share custody with Bearfeathers). Garima is the daughter of Wes and Kalpana Bhargava, and she is Harry's prospect for Tristan. (Trust me, if Wes were alive he'd choke Harry with his own two hands immediately, that's his baby girl.)
> 
> I'm sorry I haven't had much of a chance to write lately, Constant Readers. Today was my first day off since April 25th and I've just been trying to survive. Thank you for your patience.
> 
> I don't think we ever laid out a face claim for Wes, so have all three at once:
> 
> Garima Bhargava - [Deepika Padukone](https://media.vogue.in/wp-content/uploads/2017/12/01-05-Deepika-Padukone-Makeup-Hairstyle-Beauty-Vogue-India1.jpg)  
> Emerson Wesley 'Wes' Wallace - [Kenneth Branagh](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/18/5e/85/185e853d800b435f4769fd2187c27054--kenneth-branagh-cinema-cinema.jpg)  
> Kalpana Bhargava - [Anjali Bhimani](https://s3.amazonaws.com/images.charitybuzz.com/images/304612/original.jpeg?1501165169)


	17. To Understand (Post TGC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There are two kinds of guilt: the kind that drowns you until you’re useless, and the kind that fires your soul to purpose.” ― Sabaa Tahir, _An Ember in the Ashes_

The rap on her door in the early afternoon was hardly unexpected in Michelle Unwin’s old life. When she’d been with Dean, there had been so many people in and out of her flat that it really boggled her mind that the two-story little townhome belonged to her and not a collection of roughs who made disgusting comments that she had to pretend not to hear.

But it was true.

She held the deed, and Eggsy paid the utilities. Gone were the days that she had to choose between food and the lights (and those had been many, especially when her son had been small). It still made her tear up, some days, when she opened the fridge to find it full up with food that hadn’t expired. Food that she was allowed to eat. Healthy foods for her growing girl. Things she could make to feed her son when he and that lovely Tilde girl came over.

She had made it through the darkest time in her life, and the light made everything a bit too bright some days.

 Michelle set down the knife she was using to slice fruit for Daisy, moving toward the door and wiping her hands on a tea towel. She tucked it in her belt and opened the door, revealing a man that filled the frame far more than his long limbs actually reached. He stretched larger than life, broad shoulders, hands clasped on an umbrella handle, the tip resting between his perfectly placed feet on her mat.

Only his eyes were different. There was one, instead of two, the left hidden by blackened glass and thickened stems to the (no doubt expensive) spectacles he wore. The eye she remembered. Brown, somehow sad and clouded and far away even when looking right at her.

This man. He’d taken Lee away from her. She never forgot his name. Harry Hart, some sort of intelligence officer (she’d forgotten what he’d told her, amidst the buzz of grief flickering through her mind like awful shrieking static).

Now his eye was focused on her again, the baleful brown gauging her expression as the corners of her mouth hardened. Her brows drew down into a scowl; she could see herself reflected in the black glass of his spectacles.

“Mrs. Unwin,” he said, offering her a blasé smile.

Michelle stepped back, slamming the door in his face. Her hands shook as she threw the bolts, even drawing the chain on the burglar stop as she fought to keep the man at bay. At this point, it wouldn’t have surprised her if Harry Hart ended up just walking through the door anyway, like some sort of spectre.

The jangle of her phone ringing made her shriek, the terror at the noise that of an animal. She calmed her racing heart and fished in her pocket for her mobile, swiping across Eggsy’s smiling face.

“Hello?”

“Mum?” Eggsy said, clear as crystal. Michelle let out a shaky breath, feeling the warm streak of tears start from the corner of her eyes. “Oh god, mum, are you _crying_?”

“I thought—“ She hiccupped, then swallowed the knot of grief that had given way to sweet relief at hearing her son’s voice. “I saw…I thought…”

“Oh, god, no, Mum. It’s okay, Mum. Harry said he stopped by to see you, and he was afraid he might’ve frightened you.” Eggsy gave a sheepish laugh. “Neither of us thought of that when I sent him to bring you something, because I’m out of the country right now.”

“You are?” she asked. “Where are you?”

“Sweden,” he said, sounding frazzled. “I wanted to do this in person, but I can’t because I have so many things to take care of here. But listen to Harry, Mum, he’ll get everything sorted for you.”

“I don’t understand, dear.” Michelle cradled the phone to her ear, listening to her son talk.

“It’s okay. Harry will explain everything.” Someone called his name in the background. “Oh, not again. Mum, look, I’ve got to go. But I’ll call you tonight and we can chat, okay? Just…trust Harry. He’s here to help.”

Just…trust Harry. The way that Eggsy said it, it was something that was a foregone conclusion. If only she had that same conviction and the same belief that anyone who showed him even a bit of kindness was really there to help and not to hurt.

That had died in her when Dean had struck her the first time. She thumbed the mobile back to its locked and resting state, frowning. It was her promise to listen to her son’s instructions from now on, no matter how strange, that made her unbolt the door.

She found a more subdued, though still straight-backed, Harry Hart still waiting for her outside on her mat. He lifted his brows at her, as though to ask if he could enter, and she gave a small, exasperated sigh.

“I suppose you’d better come in,” she said, stepping out of the way. Harry ducked a little as he stepped inside, setting his umbrella in the stand. He removed his coat, setting it on the hook. All of this seemed a little deliberate to Michelle, as though Harry were removing some sort of outer shell. She sniffed at him, realizing she must look a mess.

“Go…just go sit in the living room,” she said. She shook her head and stepped into the washroom to straighten out her face. She dabbed at her eyes, touched up her face with a little concealer, and then left to the kitchen, where she put on some tea. It was almost petulant, the way she set biscuits on a plate and settled it on the tea tray before she took it out to the living room.

She stopped short as she stepped into the room.

The sight was completely incongruous with what she remembered of Harry Hart. Daisy sat on his knee (when had she awoken from her nap? Michelle couldn’t tell, perhaps startled awake when she’d cried out). Normally she was fussy just after awakening, but Harry held her as she explained in her very matter of fact voice about the story in the picture book he was holding.

Michelle had no doubt that a grown man in his fifties had no use for _Peppa Pig_ and her adventures, but Harry held the book as though it were a treasure, Daisy leaning against his chest as she pointed to the colorful illustrations. He nodded very seriously as she babbled to him, turning the page when she patted his hand with her fingers.

The tea tray rattled in her hands and Harry glanced up at her, his single eye meeting her gaze as though to ask forgiveness, rather than permission. She set the tray down, and Daisy wiggled down off of Harry’s knee. She ran to her mother, hugging her leg before she reached up in her indicator that she wanted to be held. Michelle hoisted her up and set her on her hip, remembering the fruit just in time. She grabbed the little plastic bowl and set Daisy up in the living room in her high chair while she and…

While she and the man who’d murdered her husband talked.

She settled in the armchair and took a deep breath, wrapping her hands around the mug of tea. She inhaled, trying to calm herself, and exhaled, willing this man to disappear from her living room just as suddenly as he came.

“Why are you here?” she asked at last, fixing him with a hard stare.

“To deliver good tidings, this time, madam, I assure you.” Harry reached within the breast of his suit and withdrew an envelope, offering it to her. She reached out and took it, her brow furrowing. “It’s quite real.”

Michelle set her tea down and looked at the envelope, tracing her fingers over the heavy paper. It was parchment, bearing her name in elegant script as though this were some secret ceremony that she was now privy to, and she turned it over. It had been sealed with wax, a ribbon marking the join of wax to paper.

“What is this?” she asked.

“Your invitation,” he said, patiently waiting for her to open it. She carefully broke the wax seal, opening the envelope to reveal softer ivory parchment within. Tugging it out, she realized that it was a single sheet of paper, and she unfolded it.

> _Their Majesties, the true and rightful rulers of the sovereign nation of Sweden, cordially invite you to attend the wedding of their daughter, Her Highness the Crown Princess Tilde Falk, and the Royal Consort, Gary Unwin._
> 
> _The ceremony will be held at the Royal Chapel in Stockholm. Please R.S.V.P. by 20 th September, 2017._

Below it, there was another, heavier seal, and Michelle passed her fingers over it. She looked up to find Harry watching her, his expression carefully neutral.

“Is…this a prank? Are there hidden cameras?” she asked, looking about her and feeling slow and stupid. “What is this, some kind of a joke?”

“No, madam.” Harry was perfectly contained, one long leg crossed over the other at the knee, his hands in his lap. “Your son has sent me to deliver that missive, as well as to take you to buy yourself and Daisy several new outfits to wear in Stockholm. There is no worry about expense, please rest assured.”

“I—“ She read over the letter again, feeling her eyes slide over the words without really comprehending. “Tilde was royalty?”

“Is royalty, Mrs. Unwin,” Harry corrected gently. “Her Highness has kept a low profile during her affair with your son, but their nuptials are a welcome surprise.”

He cleared his throat, reaching for his mug at last. He stirred a single spoonful of sugar into it, then added enough milk to make the brew lighten, then sipped. She watched him, feeling like she was in some sort of comedy they were airing on the BBC. There was no laugh track, however. No jaunty music. Just the clink of the spoon against the ceramic and the sound of Daisy babbling in her high chair.

“And he…sent **_you_** ,” she said. “To tell me.”

“Yes, madam,” he said. He tilted his head, as though he were choosing his next words carefully. “Eggsy thinks with his heart, not his head. His reasoning was that two of the people he cares about most in this world should be happy for him, and there would be no conflict – though I attempted to tell him that I was not…the best suited for this task.”

“You aren’t wrong,” she conceded. She set the letter down, carefully away from where the tea things sat so it wouldn’t get smudged. “I think…I hate you.”

He didn’t seem surprised, the admission eliciting just a weary sort of resignation that rested on his shoulders like a weight he’d borne for quite a while.

“I don’t blame you,” he said. “When Lee died, it was because of a mistake that I made. He paid the price for my error, and I have never forgotten that. You are well within your rights to loathe me, Mrs. Unwin, and I will make you a promise: I will execute my duties to you as your guide and your escort, and when the ceremony and reception have concluded, you will never see my face again.”

Michelle pursed her lips. “And if I decline?”

“We can send for a seneschal of the court to do a fitting for your clothing, but the consensus was that you would be more comfortable with an English escort,” he said. “As Best Man, I have been working alongside your son to make sure that everyone gets to the chapel on time, as it were.”

Michelle looked over to where Daisy was playing with the slices of apple she’d just cut up. She’d finished most of them. Her brow furrowed, even as she considered.

_Trust Harry. He’ll take care of everything._ Eggsy had sounded so convinced of that. She trusted his judgment but—

She was tired of second-guessing herself. She met Harry’s patient gaze full-on, draining the rest of her mug.

“I need to get my daughter cleaned up,” she said. “Do you mind waiting?”

“Not at all, madam. For the next two weeks, I am at your beck and call.” He settled back against the couch, as though it were perfectly natural for him to be seated here, in this room, scattered with colorful toys and games. It was strange, though Michelle resolved not to think too much about it.

She gathered up Daisy and moved to get her ready to go.

* * *

Harry Hart turned out to be a blessing in disguise. When they went to the boutiques that Michelle had only ever window shopped at, asking for something to be fitted, the clerks looked down their noses at her until Harry stepped in, becoming a buffer for the stares and ridicule. His quiet, patient speech was enough to get the clerk’s attention, and the black plastic card that he paid with seemed to bring the managers running to do his bidding.

She still felt like a duck out of water, pigeon-toed and awkward as she stood for fitting after fitting, Harry holding Daisy and issuing quiet, crisp instructions based on Michelle’s tastes. If she looked at a particular fabric, Harry would have them pull the bolt and ask her about styles and patterns that she enjoyed. If she admired a pair of shoes or a necklace, a clerk was there moments later to help her try them on.

Soon, she was fitted for several outfits, enough to fill her small cases twice over. Harry had new, custom luggage ordered. She had new pairs of shoes, all custom. She had new purses, a small clutch for evenings, jewelry. Harry had even led her into a place she didn’t know existed, where they made a makeup palette specifically suited to her skin tone and the fabric swatches that Harry produced from somewhere on his person like a wizard.

Perfumes and hair treatments, a spa day, a manicure and pedicure, all with Harry swiping that black card and holding Daisy while Michelle was primped and pampered.

Michelle had to admit, she felt like a princess. Her daughter was treated as one by the staff, measured and fitted with tiny skirts and blouses, pinafores and play-clothes, all more expensive than the last. Daisy got her own set of custom luggage, in the same pattern to match her mother’s and in the same patent leather. It was a whirlwind of a week, and by Friday, Michelle had no idea how she was putting one foot in front of the other.

It felt a little like she should be playing opposite Richard Gere, if she admitted it – if only to herself. She set all the shopping down in the hallway, overwhelmed. She still had no idea what to do for dinner tonight, and both she and Daisy were tired and cranky. She barely realized that Harry had ushered her into the living room, helped her put her feet up, set Daisy against her side with a bottle of juice and a picture book, and was bustling about the kitchen.

At least, until whatever he was cooking wafted into the living room on heavenly wings. She sniffed appreciatively. Daisy was dozing, and so she tucked her daughter under a blanket and rose, padding into the kitchen on bare feet.

Harry stood at the stove with an apron on, his jacket off and his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His brow was furrowed in concentration, the sauté pan he held sizzling. She realized he was making a scallop dish, searing them rather than sautéing them. She didn’t think he’d seen her, as she was standing on his left side, but Harry merely offered her a glass of the wine he’d opened, pouring it after he’d plated the seafood. They rested next to roasted asparagus, Hasselback potatoes, and steak.

“Where did you find the time to come up with all this?” she wondered, sipping the wine. It was quite good, and she didn’t want to know how expensive the bottle that sat open on her counter was; it might just make her cry. “I didn’t take you to be a cooking man.”

“I have quite the varied skill-set,” Harry replied softly, his mouth quirking in a way that made him seem quite a bit younger. “I thought you would like something more…sustaining than Chinese takeaway again tonight, that’s all.”

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, suddenly. He stopped, turning his attention to her as he held a plate, halfway done. It seemed like a moment frozen in amber, as though she and Harry had been standing in that same spot in her kitchen for decades, rather than just an evening. “Why? You could have gone home ages ago.”

Harry resumed plating the food, saucing the steak with a mushroom gravy. He didn’t answer right away, and Michelle was about to let it lie, sip her wine, and tuck her daughter into bed without ever knowing; when he spoke, his voice was rusty, as though he hadn’t spent all day speaking clearly, as though this was the first time Harry had really talked.

“When your son became employed with me,” he began, walking the plate to the table, setting it in its proper place setting and pulling out her chair for her. She didn’t even hesitate, allowing him to settle her at the table. “Something happened to me. I was unable to return to work for a very long time. When he found me, I was…not myself. I had forgotten almost everything important in my life and it made me a lesser man for it. Your son has helped me regain more than I could ever repay. There can be no settling of this account, and so it remains to me to do what I can, when he asks – if he asks. Sometimes, there are things I cannot do, and it pains me. And then…there are things like this. If I were to decline such a simple thing, what sort of a mentor would I be?”

Michelle, despite her hunger, hadn’t touched her food. She was rapt, listening to him. The way Harry spoke about her son…

“You really love him,” she said, quietly.

“Madam,” Harry said, just as softly. “Your son has saved my life, body and soul, on many occasions. I have no children. When he asked me for this, I thought that it would be the least I could do for the young man. He is my legacy, and I hope that what I’ve taught him, about life and about being a gentleman in a world where manners are less and less valued and sorely needed – I hope only that it meets with your approval. You raised a fine young man, and he has proven himself over and over again. I only wish I could divulge the breadth of my respect for your son.”

She frowned, trying to understand.

“I don’t wish to take away from Lee’s memory,” Harry continued, moistening his lips with his tongue. In all their time together, this was the first time that Michelle had even seen the composed man even remotely nervous. His eye flicked away from her face, and then returned. “He is your son. He is Lee’s son. But…he is my protégé, and the one I will leave behind when I finally let go my stubborn hold on this mortal coil and shuffle off to purgatory. I can only hope that what I’ve taught him made him a better, more complete and well-rounded man.”

Michelle hesitated, feeling something old and scarred in her chest loosen, if only a little.

“Will you…would you like to join me, Mister Hart?” she asked.

“It would be an honor,” Harry said. His tone was not mocking, nor was it simpering. It simply was. With Harry, it felt like he really did consider dinner in her home with her to be a high honor, even having cooked it himself.

* * *

The ceremony was beautiful, though it took two whole days. Tilde had sought her out beforehand, led her into the wedding party. She insisted on getting as many pictures with Michelle and Daisy as possible, especially Daisy in her little navy pinafore. The King and Queen of Sweden were cheerful, warm people, not nearly as aloof and snobbish as she’d feared. She still felt like a duck out of water, but then her son had stepped out of a side room.

Eggsy had a way of lighting up the whole room when he smiled. It had always been that way for Michelle, and she hugged and kissed her boy in a wave of fierce pride. Her son was getting married. Her boy was becoming royalty. She…had no idea how he’d gotten here, and if she were honest, she wouldn’t know who to believe if they told her – not even Eggsy. But there were so many people here to wish them well, it couldn’t be bad.

Marriage was a happy occasion.

Michelle never felt left out, a testament to Eggsy taking her by the hand, or Tilde including her in the small garden parties that marked the beginning of the main event. She sat with wonder through the reception, listening to toast after toast about the happy couple. Everyone had a kind word for her about her son. It was enough to make her feel like she’d done…her best.

She’d raised this young man, set him on this path. There had been bumps in the road, but here he was, in military dress, holding the hand of a radiant young woman who very obviously loved him. Michelle thought that the last part was the most important.

Lee would have been so, so proud of him. She knew that she was.

In an effort to stall the waterworks, she dabbed at her eyes with a napkin and attempted to feed Daisy more vegetables instead of letting her get at the cake that Eggsy’s friend James kept dropping off at the table. (He thought he was being sneaky, but he was not.)

She felt the table shift a little as someone approached, and she turned her head to smile at them. It was the man Eggsy kept referring to as Merlin, though he’d asked her to call him Callum. He rolled his wheelchair up to the table, a plate on his lap and a glass of champagne in one hand.

“You looked to be a little alone over here,” he offered, giving her a small smile. “I thought I should take a break from all the dancing, give my feet a rest.”

She blinked, not sure if he was making a joke or not. She’d seen the prosthetics peeking out from under the edges of the kilt that Merlin wore. If she were honest, she was hardly stupid. She knew that Eggsy wasn’t a normal tailor, but the less that she knew, the more plausible that it was that she could suspend her disbelief.

“Ah,” Callum said. “Bit of a joke.”

He cleared his throat, glancing around them, as though expecting someone to save him from his own mortification. When no such rescue appeared, he fiddled with his fork. “Heck of a wedding.”

“It is,” she agreed. There was a sort of earnestness about the man she couldn’t help but like. He certainly held Eggsy’s regard, her son flitting to him as well as Harry almost as much as he did his wife. Clearly, he respected their opinions. “I just…I can’t believe it.”

“There’s nothing to believe, save that your son is an upstanding young man,” Callum said. He took a bite of his cake, chewing thoughtfully. Michelle caught Daisy staring, fascinated with the wheelchair.

“Where are your legs?” Daisy asked. Loud enough to be cringe-inducing. Michelle paled and glanced at Callum, to find him watching her daughter with sharp hazel eyes. He didn’t seem to have taken offense.

“What do you think happened to them, sweeting?” he asked. He looked genuinely interested in her answer as she ignored the fork full of broccoli that Michelle was trying to tempt her with.

“Did you get eated by a bear?” Michelle tried not to shush her daughter too loudly, so as not to draw attention. She glanced at Callum and saw that he was—

He was chuckling. He seemed delighted by her creativity. He’d pushed his spectacles up and was wiping his eyes, his shoulders shaking.

A tall shadow crossed the table, and Harry appeared, drink in hand and looking amused at Callum’s mirth.

“A rousing conversation?” he asked, settling his hand on Callum’s shoulder. Something clicked for her in understanding as Callum’s hand covered Harry’s, giving it a fond squeeze.

_Your son has helped me regain more than I could ever repay._

Maybe she did understand Harry Hart, just a little bit. The thought was as unsettling as it was unsurprising.

“The wee one was asking where my legs have gone,” Callum was saying. Daisy, pleased with the attention, beamed at Callum. “But it wasn’t a bear.”

“Was it sharks?” Daisy’s eyes rounded.

“No, sweeting. It wasn’t.” Callum’s voice contained more barely restrained laughter. “I lost them doing something very brave—“

“And very stupid,” Harry said, echoed by Eggsy, who kissed Michelle’s cheek and took the fork from her hand. He popped the bite of broccoli into Daisy’s mouth, mimicking her chewing to make her laugh as he tossed himself into a chair on the other side of her.

“Yes, I was getting there,” Callum said, his voice turning peevish. He settled as he returned his gaze to Daisy. “But I lost them, either way.”

“Do you need help to find them?” Daisy asked. “I’m a good finder. I can get under the tables.”

Eggsy choked. Harry’s brows lifted, the hints of a smile beginning at the corners of his mouth, and Callum barked a laugh. He covered his face with a large hand, laughing in earnest now.

Michelle breathed a small sigh of relief that her daughter hadn’t managed to alienate one of Eggsy’s friends.

“You must have your hands full,” Callum said.

“She’s a lot like her brother,” Michelle admitted.

“Lord, I hope not too much,” Harry murmured.

Eggsy sputtered. “Oi!”

“I’ll drink to that,” Callum said, raising his glass.

“ _Oi!_ ”

Michelle could see how they smiled, though. Maybe this strange little family wasn’t so bad for her son, after all. She might not like them all that much, and she might not understand everything, but this, at least, she could understand. It was enough, and Michelle realized that it always had been.

* * *

Merlin sighed as he finally got himself settled on the jet, unused to being the passenger instead of the pilot. Harry brushed a kiss against his forehead as he helped him into the plush leather seat. Harry’s hands lingered, and Merlin reached up, taking one of them between his own.

There was immeasurable fondness in Arthur’s gaze as he watched his wizard get comfortable.

“You let her use your first name,” Harry said, even as James and Martin brushed past them, James carrying their luggage. Roxy was doing her pre-flight checklist, but she would be out soon enough before they were scheduled to take off. All of them were tired, but the break in their training and recruiting had done them good.

Merlin gave Harry a tight smile. “Out of everyone, I think she’s the one to have earned it the most, don’t you agree?”

“I do,” Harry said. Merlin blinked. “I know exactly what you mean, Dove.”

“Is that why you agreed to that shopping trip?” Merlin asked.

“Perhaps,” Harry conceded, sitting down beside Merlin. Merlin turned his body perpendicular to Harry’s, settling his legs in his partner’s lap. Harry obliged him by removing his prosthetics, running his hands gently across Merlin’s knees and lower thighs, almost reverently.

It felt good to get them off, and Merlin gave a small sigh.

“Then you understand,” Merlin said, tipping his head back as the last of the baggage was loaded and Roxy announced they’d be taking off. “I’m an old coward, aren’t I?”

“The furthest thing from it,” Harry declared. He covered Merlin’s lap with a blanket and then linked one of their hands. “And you’ll never hear me say otherwise.”

“…I’m glad.” Merlin’s voice was quiet, but by the steady brush of Harry’s thumb against his, he knew that Harry had heard him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was...not expecting that to hit as hard as it did. Nevertheless I wanted to take a different perspective, at least for a little bit. This is a bit of a timeskip, so if I do the chapter I have planned next, it will be slotted appropriately. I'd hate for the story to be out of order, after all. I'm trying to keep them self-contained, but you can see the overarching story beginning to unfold, at least I hope so!
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, Constant Readers. if you liked it, please consider leaving me a review! They always make my day.


	18. Wednesday's Child (Post TGC*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 
>      
>     
>     _Wednesday's child is a child of woe.
>     Wednesday's child cries alone, I know.
>     When you smiled, just for me you smiled,
>     For a while I forgot I was Wednesday's child.
>     
>     Friday's child wins at love, they say.
>     In your arms Friday was my day.
>     Now you're gone, well I should have known,
>     I am Wednesday's child, born to be alone.
>     
>     Now you're gone, well I should have known,
>     I am Wednesday's child, born to be alone.
>     
>     Wednesday's child, born to be alone._

There was no happy ending in their line of work, Harry mused as he strode through the halls of Statesman, the weight of Kingsman on his mind. A heavier weight than normal, considering that he had been granted the mantle of Arthur, and all that it entailed. Logistics, rebuilding, hiring and recruiting, it all went through Harry now.

He sometimes wished he had more than two hands. He would hardly change his circumstances, despite this wish; Harry Hart was nothing if not a dutiful man. In the wake of everything, the need for his guiding hand was apparent. There were no more Kingsman agents, save himself and Eggsy. Rebuilding was their last, best hope. It was all he had left.

Finally, however, he’d reached a place where he simply couldn’t proceed until morning. The plans were in place, their purchases moving forward, but their pace was dictated by legal red tape and property agreements, and Harry knew that the real work would begin once they’d finished the paperwork on the distillery.

Now it was time for one of his rare rests, and he found his feet carrying him toward Statesman’s excellent library. He opened the worked wooden door and inhaled the scent of paper as he entered, turning on the lights. The library was spacious, paneled in rich woods with shelves that stretched up to a high ceiling. Large windows revealed the Statesman compound below, dimly lit for so late in the evening. Some lights still burned below, but save for the agents who were on patrol duty this evening, it was quiet.

Harry had sought this place for that reason.

For someone who cultivated such a ‘dumb hick’ persona, Champ curated his library with a careful, guiding hand. Pride of place away from the windows, they rested, waiting for someone to open them up once more. First edition Steinbecks in a glass case beside a signed Hemingway, surrounding a hand-bound Salinger. Vonnegut, Twain, Poe – each had a place of honor in the Statesman’s library, sealed away from dust, light, and the passage of time.

Harry found he could relate.

He passed beside the case, moving to the sideboard (because Statesman was nothing if not consistent with their placement of their alcohol) and pouring himself a stiff drink. While brandy was more his speed, he’d decided that the whiskey produced by Statesman was an acceptable alternative. Smooth, with oaky notes, it burned very little when swallowed, signifying quality (and a caution to not imbibe too much, as Tequila had warned him, slapping his shoulder.)

It was one of those times that he could feel his joints, the way they creaked as he found a seat before the massive stone fireplace, lit against the chill of the late October evening. He sank into the pliant leather chair, crossing his legs at the knee and simply…being for just a moment. He was so rarely alone with his thoughts these days, and perhaps that was a good thing, with the weight of all that had happened threatening to come crashing down on him.

Harry Hart was a man of action. He found that sitting still was his worst enemy at times, bringing up memories unbidden of the times he’d spent in the shop, contemplating his drink after losing yet another companion. Never close enough to keep, to form meaningful and lasting attachments, but still a blow all the same. Harry had discovered, after the first time, that the bespoke could stop almost everything. Just not…this. No matter how closed off he became, how perfectly neutral he kept his face and his temper, he would still be faced with the same glass of liquor, a fire, and the empty feeling that gnawed at his guts as he brooded.

Now he’d lost them all, save his protégé, and the blow would cripple Kingsman for some time. Not kill – Harry would see to that – but it would be some time before their ranks would be as illustrious as they once were. Good men all (Roxanne Morton included), but in the end, they were just photos to be replaced, titles to be handed over. Names to be murmured in solemn ceremony while one drank to them.

His lone eye was focused on the flames, but his mind was far away, in Savile Row. The knock on the door startled him, and he willed the glass that sloshed in his hand to still.

“Enter,” he called, as though he were master of this domain. Not just yet, and not here, but still, one should be in practice. Besides, he had a good feeling he knew who it was; his instincts were proven right when Eggsy opened the door, peering into the library and looking for him. “Eggsy. What is it?”

The young man, usually so boisterous and enthusiastic, was subdued. He closed the door behind him, moving towards the fire. Instead of wearing his usual casual attire, while he was at Statesman he’d done Harry proud by favoring his bespoke. Wordlessly, he approached the wingback chair where Harry was seated, indicating its mate.

“Can I sit?” he asked.

“Of course,” Harry said. “Drink?”

“Please.” Eggsy, instead of making Harry rise, moved to the sideboard himself. He poured himself out a healthy measure of the amber liquid into the glass, then returned, seating himself beside Harry.

“You look as though you’ve something on your mind,” Harry said. He turned his attention to the liquid in his own glass, before glancing back at Eggsy.

“We never drank to Merlin,” Eggsy said quietly.

Harry considered this. Merlin was as much a Kingsman as the rest of them, despite being their trainer and technical wizard. Traditionally, one only drank to Knights, and Merlin had never shared a glass with them when one had fallen in the field. If the man had mourned, he’d mourned in private, always seeming calm and collected in Harry’s ear.

“Would you like to?” Harry asked. Somehow, leaving the decision up to Eggsy, letting him set the course for the way Kingsman would do things in the future, seemed appropriate.

“Yes,” Eggsy said. His throat worked as he swallowed, blinking hard for just a moment as he passed a hand over his face. “We drank to Kingsman when the missiles hit…mostly because we was the only ones left. And I didn’t remember drinking to you with him. The toast was done by the time I got back and then we went after Valentine, and…”

His voice trailed off, and he looked into the fire for a long time. Harry recognized the signs in Eggsy. This was his first real chance to deal with the upset of losing someone he’d worked closely with. He had been much the same way when he and his mentor had drunk their first toast.

“One must not mourn too long,” Harry said softly. Eggsy looked up, his eyes focusing on Harry. “You mustn’t allow grief to weight your decisions. You must always weigh the worth of a single life against that of the many we save. We act in the defense of others, and we all know the rules when we sign on.”

“That—“ Eggsy’s mouth worked as he tried to come up with the words around the multitude of feelings that flashed across his face. “It seems so heartless.”

“One must have a degree of heartlessness to survive within this business.” Harry rolled the whiskey in his glass, watching the spark of the flames that lit the glass turn it into a warm, honey color. “You won’t be able to do what is necessary, what is right, if you fear death. Or you fear it for your coworkers.”

“Is that all they were to you?” Eggsy wondered, disbelief warring with what sounded like disgust in his voice. It sounded much the same when he’d accused him of killing his dog to take his place within the Kingsman ranks. “Coworkers?”

“When one does such dangerous work, one must realize that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few – or the one. It doesn’t matter how I feel. It matters what I do. It matters in the choices that I make, and it matters that I finish my mission to the best of my ability.” Harry glanced at Eggsy, who was watching him closely. “Learning to distance oneself is only natural. I wouldn’t be half the Knight I am if I hadn’t.”

“Mm.” Eggsy looked down into his drink. “I didn’t question what he saw in you, but you know, I’m starting to.”

“Who?” Harry said, confusion knitting his brows.

“Merlin,” Eggsy said. “He was gone on you, you know? Complete nutter. He told me once. I thought he might’ve told you when we found out you was alive, but…”

Harry’s confusion only deepened. “I thought that he and Whiskey—“

“Nah,” Eggsy said, shaking his head. “They had a meeting of the minds, but Merlin’s heart was never in it. She liked the idea of someone who shared her position. But she knew the second she laid eyes on him when we was being held for questioning and they revealed you were alive. He loved you.”

“This is the first I’m hearing of it,” Harry said. Eggsy gave a snort, shaking his head again. “Surely he would have—“

“ _Remember your training. There’s no time for emotion in this scenario. Now that all surviving agents are present, we follow the doomsday protocol. When **that’s** done, then – and only then – may you shed a tear in private._ ” The words were not Eggsy’s, and Harry knew them almost as intimately as he knew himself – they were an echo of Thomas Brampton. His mentor, the previous Lancelot before he’d attempted to recruit Lee Unwin, Thomas had also taken the nascent Merlin (then codenamed Emrys) under his wing for the brief amounts of field work where Merlin had been needed.

Harry swallowed around a rapidly forming lump in his throat. “He—“

Eggsy removed his spectacles, holding them out to Harry. “If you really want to know, play Recording Seven. It has everything you need.”

Harry held the spectacles in his hand, staring down at them. For one of the first times in his life, he was afraid. Afraid of the consequences of a Kingsman’s life well-lived, afraid of the tenuous connection becoming more substantial, afraid of the ripples of ‘what might have been’ becoming a roaring echo that would drown him in its black and grasping wake.

“To Merlin,” Eggsy said, his voice just as quiet as it had been, but somehow more raw than if he’d been screaming. “He was the best of all of us.”

He drained his glass, giving a soft, sharp inhale once he’d swallowed. He rose, moving to the sideboard, replacing his glass and leaving Harry alone with his thoughts and the spectacles in his hand.

Harry didn’t even hear the door shut behind him.

* * *

“I could have done more to save them,” Merlin said. His tie was loose about his neck, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his collar askew. “It was all my fault.”

“What? Merlin no,” Eggsy said. The both of them were slurring and leaning companionably against each other, the Scotsman the least buttoned up that Harry had ever seen him. He’d never seen the stiff-backed and proper Merlin tie one on, and really, when had he ever done the same? But this…this recording was more than that. Eggsy had recorded it with the hopes that he could both blackmail and embarrass his handler, though it had just become a series of painful reminders of the people that Eggsy had lost.

“No, it’s true. I should have seen it coming, I should have seen the signals. I’m supposed to be bloody brilliant,” Merlin said, his voice turning morose as he slugged back another mouthful of the Statesman whiskey. The bottle was still half-full, but it was clear that the two of them were getting rip-roaring drunk, all in toasting their companions. A full on wake, as it were. “I couldn’t even counter the missiles.”

“You were at home, Merlin. What were you gonna do from there?” Eggsy asked. His hand appeared in his peripheral, squeezing Merlin’s shoulder. “Come on, bruv, you did the best you could, and you know it.”

“And my best wasn’t good enough, Eggsy, that’s my point.” Merlin slouched backward, pouring himself another sloppy measure of the liquid. “I’m supposed to know everything. That’s why I have cameras and sensors and tech up to my eyeballs, including in my spectacles and I still missed it. F-fucking idiot.”

Merlin wept. It was the first time that Harry had seen him do such a thing, the silent tears that slid down his face countered by the Scotsman fishing out a handkerchief and mopping his face. It was ugly, this grief, screwing Merlin’s face into a pinched, red-mottled mess, but it was as though Harry had been punched in the chest. The weight of Merlin’s emotion was like thirty-seven years of grief coming home to roost at once, to know that someone felt much the same as he did – the sense of self-blame just the same as the guilt he felt over Lee Unwin’s death. His mistakes. Reviewing over and over the things he could have done.

Had Merlin felt the same over his own apparent death? Merlin had pushed harder than anyone to help Harry remember, had remembered things about himself that even he had forgotten, and looking back over their interactions with the new lens that perhaps Merlin wanted back the Harry Hart that he had loved made more sense than ever. Harry took a shuddering breath, pausing the recording as he had many times before while he gathered himself.

He took another sip of his drink, passing a hand over his face. This was something, for all his skill, that he’d missed. He’d completely overlooked the man before his eyes, the man who cared more about Kingsman than anyone. The man who’d been taking care of him and the rest of them for decades. Harry’s breath stuttered, but he swallowed back the emotion that threatened.

He replaced Eggsy’s spectacles on the bridge of his nose and pressed play.

“It was the same with Valentine,” Merlin said, unfrozen in time by Harry’s command. “I could have figured out, extrapolated what he was working on so that Harry wouldn’t have been—“

“Merlin,” Eggsy said, squeezing Merlin’s shoulder. “Don’t.”

“No, it’s true,” Merlin insisted. “I could have counteracted the chip if I’d had enough time. I didn’t…I was blinded by the fact that Arthur had already turned. That we were in the shallows and the tide was rising fast.”

“And kicking yourself about it ain’t gonna do you much good, is it?” Eggsy said. He thumped Merlin hard, on the shoulder. “You did brilliantly, helping us save the world. Fucking spectacular!”

Harry’s smile was involuntary as Eggsy mimicked Merlin’s Glaswegian brogue. Merlin went redder in the face, but his smile was less wobbly.

“I just…I couldn’t save Harry,” Merlin said. “I always could before. All it took was one mistake and—“

“Hey,” Eggsy said. “That ain’t on you.”

“It is, though. Should have been able to save him. I loved him.” Merlin froze, glancing up at Eggsy as though to check that what he’d said hadn’t registered. He’d let slip something involuntarily, and it showed as he wet his lips nervously, glancing about them though it was clear that the tasting room didn’t, and would not, have anyone but them inside it until they were done.

“What?” Eggsy said, his spectacles’ view swiveling wildly as he did much the same as Merlin, checking to see that they were still alone. “As in—“

Merlin nodded, his expression miserable. “For years.”

“Christ,” Eggsy breathed, and Harry echoed the action, unconsciously. “When?”

“He trained me as a recruit, along with the previous Lancelot, the one just before Roxy’s predecessor,” Merlin said. “I was young, and impressionable, and…very much in love with the _idea_ of Harry Hart. I only knew him as Galahad for a number of years. The untouchable, pinnacle of intelligence agent.”

The smile he gave made Harry lose his breath. He seemed years younger, age falling away in the wake of the happiness that Merlin had at the memories of them back then.

“We had been on mission in Rhodes, breaking up a human trafficking ring,” Merlin said. Harry remembered that; it had been a hell of a mission. He still bore several scars, white with age and stretching across his ribs. “During the mission, Harry was to have been the bait. The head of the ring liked his boys posh and roughed up. As a show of good faith, he injected Harry with something that would kill him if his timetable wasn’t met exactly.”

“Jesus Christ,” Eggsy breathed. “He walked into that?”

“More than willingly. He was the youngest agent that we had – Percival would have been recruited…four or five years later,” Merlin said. “Our satellites couldn’t keep locked on as the technology hadn’t adapted quite that far yet. I was forced, along with Lancelot as a backup, to trail behind the boat carrying Harry that night, tracking his movements. By the second hour, Harry was in tremendous pain, his nervous system in danger of being degraded by the toxin. He would have died, it came out later, because he’d been dosed too heavily. It was merely supposed to disable until hour eight, when the degradation began.”

Merlin took a contemplative sip of his whiskey.

“How the hell—“

“I’m getting to that,” Merlin said. “I, in a spectacularly stupid blunder, dove off the boat and swam the quarter mile to the yacht where Harry was being held. I managed to get on the boat, and kill six of the guards before I was about to be overwhelmed. Unbeknownst to me, Lancelot, unwilling to lose two of us at once, had followed in the boat. He disabled the remainder, and we managed to get Harry dosed with the antidote before he succumbed to any permanent damage.”

Harry’s memory of that night had been foggy. He remembered passing out, cradled in someone’s arms and waking in sick bay.

“Lancelot gave me the lecture of my life,” Merlin said with a morose chuckle. “Yes, I had saved the day, but I also set back our investigation by a week or more, until I was able to find an alternate route by finding a discrepancy in their bank transactions that led to their whereabouts. I could have gotten many people killed.”

“Mission came first,” Eggsy said.

“Yes, for all of us, from then on.” Merlin blotted at his face with his handkerchief once more. “Afterward, it never seemed appropriate, or good form, to mention it. But…I got to know him as Harry Hart, and the feelings never faded. He was one of the few people I felt could understand me, should I decide to share that part of myself. But I never did.”

“Christ, Merlin.” Eggsy squeezed Merlin’s forearm, and poured him another measure of the whiskey. “You’ve been living with that all these years?”

“Nearly thirty-four,” Merlin said. “But I was content. I could work with him, each day, and I could keep him safe. The choices I made with my own life, they’re mine. I would choose them over if it would spare anyone pain.”

“What about Harry? You said you didn’t tell him, but do you think he ever guessed?” Eggsy asked. Merlin rotated the glass thoughtfully, but didn’t drink.

“No, I don’t believe he did. If he suspected, that’s something he kept to himself.” Merlin’s smile was small and content, however. “He didn’t often speak of his feelings.”

Harry felt the bile rise up in his throat. He wanted to retch, to rid himself of the black and slimy feeling that clawed at his guts. He’d never known. He’d respected Merlin as a colleague, had sought his advice on more than one occasion. There had never been any indication.

There had been every indication, he realized. The fond but exasperated ‘Late again, sir.’ The rolled eyes as Harry stole his clipboard to check something. The murmured ‘Be careful, Galahad.’ that echoed in his ears, reverberating from the countless times he’d heard it spoken, earnest and without expectation of reciprocation.

“My god, Merlin,” Harry whispered. His voice was broken, and he passed a shaking hand over his face. “You should have told me.”

“Would you tell him now?” Eggsy asked. “If you could?”

Harry’s eye was drawn back to the screen, watching intently.

“Perhaps,” Merlin said. “I don’t know. It feels like…I’ve known him forever, but I also know that it’s easy to fall in love with the idea of someone. I know more about him than anyone, but that’s no guarantee we’d have ever been compatible.”

“You keep selling yourself short,” Eggsy said.

“I think we should drink to Scotland,” Merlin said, clearly having had enough of Eggsy’s questions. He reached for the bottle, and Eggsy scooted it out of his reach.

“I think you’ve had enough,” Eggsy replied. He picked up the bottle, something catching his attention and he moved it closer, peering at the tiny inscribed Kingsman symbol on the label inside the bottle. “Merlin.”

“Wha’?” Merlin said. He’d just downed the rest of his drink, and squinted at Eggsy.

“I think we’re going to Kentucky,” Eggsy said.

“Fried chicken? I love fried chicken.” Merlin’s gaze was more unfocused than ever, the clarity gone now in the wake of his drunken confession.

Harry stopped the recording and sent it to his own spectacles, inhaling deeply as he placed Eggsy’s on the table beside him. He replaced his own on his face, intent on locking away the video deep within their memory, when the message indicator caught his eye.

There was not one, but two messages waiting for him. He found the video file as expected, but there was a second, seemingly piggybacked on the tail end of the first. What made his vision blur was the addressee of the second.

It was from Merlin.

Carefully, he stored the first video file away, encrypting it deep within the recesses of his private feed. The second was also a video file, and he clicked play, bracing himself.

Merlin appeared before his eyes, deep within the heart of the Statesman compound. He was in the room that Harry had spent a year and a half recovering in, seated on the small platform that served as his bed. He was speaking directly to Harry, which meant that Merlin had recorded this in the hopes that he would see it.

“Hello, Galahad. Or is it Arthur now?” Merlin said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Regardless. Late again, sir.”

He adjusted his glasses, clearing his throat.

“If you’re seeing this, I’m assuming that Eggsy has shown you the recording he took just after we activated the Doomsday protocols,” Merlin said. “I’d upgraded the spectacles with retinal scanners after you passed, in case of another situation like Kentucky when we couldn’t retrieve them – you know James never wore his on mission, the vain peacock, but you…”

Harry’s lips twitched. He remembered. It was another blow to the sucking feeling of hollow guilt in his chest, but it was bittersweet, remembering James.

“You were always the modern agent, collected and proper and correct,” Merlin said. He smiled, wryly, at the camera. “You’ve activated my own sort of doomsday protocol. This was tied to a dead man’s switch in your spectacles, placed there when I made them for you. My last touch – there was a separate one in the event I still lived and Eggsy decided to share that with you for a lark. You triggered this one when you watched the recording.”

His smile didn’t waver, instead his hazel eyes focused on Harry and made his face feel warm. He didn’t look away, however, Harry’s solitary eye focused on Merlin.

“Eggsy thought I wouldn’t realize. Good lad. Bit thick, but a good lad.” Merlin chuckled, his smile going a little sly. “There’s a reason I didn’t delete it. And here we are.”

Harry gave a choked laugh, the humor in Merlin’s voice too much, too soon.

“So,” Merlin said. “Now you know. I’d never intended to burden you with this sort of thing. There was always too much to do, too much left unsaid, that in the end, it became easier for me to remain as I was rather than entangle you in this. But you should know: I would never trade what I felt or what we had for the world. It was enough to watch your back for nearly four decades, and I’m proud to have done it as well as I did. You daft bugger, you scared the life out of me several times.”

Harry’s eye welled with tears.

“Harry,” Merlin continued, and Harry swallowed hard, fighting back the realization that he could have had this, he could have cultivated something with Merlin if only he’d tried. It might not have worked out, but it was his own…cowardice that kept it now firmly in the realm of ‘might have been’. “Harry.”

Harry opened his eye, and Merlin had apparently been waiting for that trigger, because he continued.

“Don’t feel regret for this,” Merlin said. “Instead, do your duty. Because I know you will, and I know that you will bring Kingsman back from the brink, because the Harry Hart I know can do no less.”

There was a gentleness in his voice that was like a caress, a warm hand on Harry’s cheek as he leaned himself back in the chair, his hand pressed over his mouth.

“I don’t know if there’s an afterlife,” Merlin said, turning his gaze speculatively toward the ceiling. “But I do know that I’ll be waiting for you with a pint when you get there if it exists. Frankly, I sort of hope it does.”

Harry raised his glass to his lips and drained the rest of his whiskey from it. “To you, Merlin.”

Merlin’s smile returned, as did his gaze to the camera. “And Harry? I expect you to be late.”

Harry carefully saved the recording, hiding it in an encrypted folder. He placed his empty glass on the table beside his chair and removed his spectacles. There, in private, he shed his tear for the one man he never knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. That fucking hurt.
> 
> ANYWAY. Good thing that little asterisk is there, otherwise people might think it was canon, right? Ahahaha *dies* (You should also [listen to the song](https://youtu.be/MOZkAgyoC-g) listed in the summary, because the pining note is excellent for this piece.)
> 
> (Seriously, canon Harry for P&M has been screaming in the back of my head the entire time because NO THAT'S NOT HOW IT WENT AT ALL.)
> 
> More P&M soon, I was sidetracked by this prompt because my brain is an absolute asshole when it comes to what-ifs. You can also share blame with Bearfeathers who immediately went 'oh fuck me up'. _Two for flinching._


	19. 25 Lives (Post TGC*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __
>     
>     
>       __
>     
>     
>         _Even though each time, I know I’ll see you again, I always wonder
>     is this the last time?
>     Is that really you?
>     And what if you’re perfectly happy
>     without me?
>     Ah, but I don’t blame you; I’ll never burn as brilliantly as you. It’s only fair
>     that I should be the one
>     to chase you across ten, twenty-five, a hundred lifetimes 
>     until I find the one where you’ll return to me.
>     
>     -- 25 LIVES, BY TONGARI_
>       
>     
>     
>     

There was always a next time.

* * *

Vegetation crunched under his boots as he made his arduous hike. He knew the place, it was never hidden to him. That was the worst thing about this; he had somehow always known, about everything. His—well, he’d never bothered to hide it, thinking his lover too stupid, too loyal, to betray him. His rifle was heavy on his shoulder, seeming to weigh him down until he was sick to death of it, the war and the killing and the secrets. It had never seemed as such before, when he was younger.

Now, at the ripe old age of thirty-five, he felt positively ancient.

_He has that heavy quiet that commands. He's my other half. Between us we'd make one marvelous man. He asks nothing better than to be in my company or that of my wicked, divine friends, and I'm vastly tickled by the compliment._

The leaves smelled like rot, the sour-sweet of fall that trailed wherever you went whilst out in the countryside this time of year. Thin curls of wood smoke invaded his nose and he knew he was getting close. His rifle seemed heavier than ever. He wanted to rest.

Soon, he told himself.

The hills provided an excellent view as he took a knee, watching through his scope as the man in the blue sweater exited the cabin. He held a tin mug of tea, his clothing seeming to fit him ill these days. His shirts were too big, as though he hadn’t been eating. His hair fell in messy, limp curls about his face, framing his high cheekbones and large, sad eyes. Pools of deep brown, they gazed out at the English countryside for the last time.

He was set to be extradited, tomorrow.

His gaze in the scope was clear, his fingers steady. He adjusted, listening to the wind as it blew through the trees, rattling the branches there like dried bone. He framed the crosshairs just so, tracing it across those high cheekbones to the point just beneath that large, dark eye.

He used to touch him like that. Huge hands that were too big, too large, for softness—somehow they had been soft enough for that. He had loved running his fingers through soft curls, watching them spring to life beneath his hands as though he could never muss them. Hands that could break a neck were tamed and wrapped in sheets, violence that bordered on obsession and calling itself a love story.

The man in the blue sweater stirred, as though sensing he was there. He allowed him to see. There was recognition there, for half a moment. He was sure the scope had given him away, the weak fall sunlight still enough to shine a light, should he wish it.

Just enough. Just so.

He fired.

Bill Haydon didn’t make a sound as he slumped to the earth, the bullet puncturing his brain and rendering him dead before he hit the ground. Jim Prideaux drew a shuddering breath, his heart coated in something cold and black.

Because he _remembered_.

He retched in the fall foliage, his memories making his guts churn as he spat bile onto dead leaves. He hadn’t eaten for days, the edge of hunger making him sharper, more eager for the kill. He crawled, heaving, back the way he came, heedless of the trail he was leaving. He would be long gone before Smiley realized he had even been here. That had never been a concern.

His head was spinning, his world pitching and yawing as he felt the grip of this realization—and the cold familiarity it brought with it, like the caress of a particularly unwelcome nightmare, one that was never quite banished with the rays of the sun.

He’d killed his soul mate.

Again.

There was always a next time.

* * *

Archy always had time for a cigarette before a job. He prided himself on a job well done and he needed the steady hands afforded to him by the shot of nicotine to do it. He took a long drag, blowing twin streams of smoke from his nose as he watched the diner. His mark was in there, and Lenny wanted his arms broken.

Having just gotten out of prison, Archy knew that finesse was the name of the game now. Waiting, watching, taking the perfect opportunity. Cunning, while animal in nature, had served him well up until this point, it was raw intelligence that made him pause, considering where he was.

Lenny didn’t own this block (yet). Archy could walk in there and waltz out in a set of bracelets and be sent right back up the river. So he waited, watching. The accountant would be out and about soon enough, once his lunch was over. Until then, Archy would nurse his tepid paper cup of tea, smoke his cigarette, and envision the lesson he was about to deliver.

“Excuse me,” said a voice. Archy turned, catching sight of brown eyes the color of a particularly fine glass of spirits. The man was impeccably dressed for this part of town, though that wasn’t odd. (Archy himself was dressing up these days, investing in a tailor like Lenny told him to, to find clothes that fit his long legs and broad chest and shoulders like a dream.) Everyone slummed it, once in a while. The man held out a cigarette. “Trouble you for a light?”

Archy was in a good mood, so he humored him, digging out his ancient Dunhill and snapping a flame alight. The man bent and puffed a coal onto the end of his cigarette, taking a deep drag.

“Thank you,” he said. “I so rarely get them, it’s nice to find someone who still smokes on the regular.”

“The missus making you quit?” Archy asked, and the man laughed, sending a frisson of something unfamiliar into his stomach. Archy had dabbled, but never like this, never on the street and openly. He’d caught this man’s eye, and he’d caught Archy’s, something that had never happened before.

High cheekbones and salt-and-pepper curls rendered the man classically handsome. Long legs and broad shoulders made him a draw to the eye even on a street like this. He could have been a spokesman for the suit he wore, impeccably tailored and covering his frame like a caress made from cloth.

“No missus,” he said. He extended a hand, smiling. “Just myself, I’m afraid. John.”

Archy shook, their fingers lingering as both danced around an unspoken question. “Archy.”

“Archy.” His name tumbling from the other man’s mouth felt more like a caress than if John had reached up and slid his hand against Archy’s neck. It was electric, sparking between them in waves and by the light in John’s eyes, he knew exactly what it was. “This might seem forward, but do you like pool, Archy?”

“I dabble,” Archy lied smoothly. He’d been a shark since his teens, but something about this man made him want to impress.

“Good. I’ll be at Creechurch’s Club Room tomorrow night at eight for a pint. If you’d like to join me.”

Archy offered him a lopsided smile. “Buy the first round, and I’m there.”

“Then I’ll see you at eight.” John’s return smile was sly as he turned to hail a cab. “Bring your A game, Archy.”

Archy broke the guy’s arms in the alleyway later on, but his enthusiasm was directed elsewhere. It was only natural to be distracted.

\- - - -

Pool turned into a regular thing, with pints and good conversation. John always seemed to have a private table, always seemed to have a round up, and Archy always seemed to stay later than he meant to. It was hard not to crave the inviting simplicity that John provided. There was never a push, a tug that was too hard and pulled Archy over the edge, but there was always some reason to stand near John, with his soft brown eyes, messy hair, and wicked sense of humor.

It was easy to forget who he was, and what he did. Just for a little while. With John, he could just be Archy, laugh at dirty jokes, drink, and relax. John never asked questions and always seemed to be waiting for him, whenever Archy decided to show up.

One night, he drained his pint, said good night, and went out to have a last cigarette before crawling into a cab and going home to pour himself into bed. It was almost like he expected the noise of the club to roar behind him and then quiet as the door opened and closed, admitting John out into the brisk night air. Archy didn’t move, but John seemed to seek him out regardless, standing shoulder to shoulder with him under the awning.

“Have a light, Arch?” John said, his cigarette between his lips already. Instead of fishing out his lighter, Archy leaned forward, comfortably close, the cherry on the end of his cigarette giving life to the one between John’s lips.

John wore his same sly smile, puffing out a cloud of smoke and looking out into the night.

“What is it?” Archy asked, genuinely curious.

“Nothing, I just never thought I’d let someone toy with me this long before getting to the bottom of things, as it were,” John replied, canting his head toward Archy. “How long have we been doing this casual thing? Six months? I could have sworn you were—“

Archy looked away, clearing his throat. “I’m not, exactly.”

“Then what, exactly, is this?” John asked. He blew a thin stream of smoke skywards, toward the black London night. “What are you aiming for? A quick fuck? Because you’re certainly taking your time about it. Foreplay is not your forte, Arch.”

“No!” Archy ran a hand through his hair, his eyes wild as they darted around, looking for people listening. “That’s not—“

“Then what is it?” John asked, his smile dropping. He ashed his cigarette, and Archy noticed the tremor in his hand for the first time. “Why do you always look seconds away from coming over here, raw and ready, yet hold yourself back?”

Archy inhaled, stubbing his cigarette out. “I need to go.”

“Okay,” John said. He looked away, shoulders hunched into his coat. His voice was bitter, like the dregs of a particularly good lager. “When you get your shit together, ring me. I’ll be there. Because I want it, too.”

Archy groaned softly. Having it out there, in the middle of things, made everything less…easy. He fidgeted, flexing his fingers. He wanted to pace, he wanted to shout, but he wanted none of the attention either of those things would bring him. He scrubbed his hands across his eyes, rubbing the heels of his hands against his sockets until he saw stars.

“Archy.” John reached out, snagging Archy’s hand. Archy didn’t jerk away like instinct told him to. “Come home with me. To mine. No one knows where I live, you don’t have to…be whatever you think you have to there.”

He hesitated, and John tugged at his hand. “We can go as slow as you need.”

Archy lifted his free hand and hailed a cab.

\- - - -

John was so much better than Archy had hoped. As soon as the door to his flat was open, he was at Archy’s mouth, kissing him until his knees were wobbly. A hand in his hair, tugging his head back, teeth against his throat. John was muttering filthy things against his skin and Archy could barely hear him for the thundering rush of blood in his ears. John wedged one of his long legs between Archy’s thighs, and it was all he could do to grind against the hard muscle he found there.

His breath was a broken sob as John started to peel him from his suit, hands caressing the lines of his shoulders through his shirt. Tugging his tie off and over his head, letting their clothes pool where they fell. Archy’s hands roved up John’s sides, the other man laughing against his mouth as he caught up with where John was going.

There might have been furniture, décor, something—but all Archy’s senses had time for was John and his clever hands as he was touched and kissed and pressed against a wall.

He followed, dumbly, as John tugged him to the bedroom, pressing him against the bed with a low growl. The sound made Archy’s head spin, made him buck his hips up into the hand that was working over his already aching cock as John took his time devouring him. Archy reached up, winding his hands into John’s hair, feeling the spring of salt-and-pepper curls against his fingers.

“Do you trust me?” John whispered, licking a hot, wet stripe against his pulse before sucking a welt right against it. Archy groaned, his eyes half-lidded as he nodded, watching John sit up and strip off his shirt. He reached up, sliding a hand across smooth, even skin, traced muscle that was slowly losing traction to middle-age spread, up his side and over his chest and to his neck.

He traced John’s lips with his thumb, shuddered when John’s sly smile parted and took his thumb in, wicked tongue circling as he hollowed his cheeks and sucked. Archy was already half-gone and he knew it, his breathing short and harsh. His fingers caressed John’s neck, gasping as John seated himself against his hips, their clothing doing nothing to stop the sear of heat from both of them as John ground his backside against Archy.

“Christ,” Archy grunted, one hand digging into the muscle of John’s thigh.

“This is what happens when you wait half a year, dove,” John said. He was wrecked, his mussed curls lending him a softness that was a lie as one hand covered Archy’s throat. Archy’s eyes widened, but John didn’t squeeze, brown eyes blown near black in the dim light from the bedroom’s table lamp. Concentration etched lines on his face as his thumb stroked Archy’s neck, his grip firm but not cutting off his air. “You trust me?”

“I—“ John rocked his hips and Archy stuttered, his voice dying as the sensation was heightened. The danger in his brain quickly turned to lust and he groaned, baring his neck more for John.

“You do,” John breathed, his smile widening. He released Archy, slipping from his lap to strip down. Archy kicked himself out of his trousers, fumbling with his belt while John rummaged for something in the side table.

“I’m clean,” Archy mumbled. “Ain’t had…last test was fine.”

“Me too,” John murmured. “But I still want you safe.”

Archy startled, sitting on the edge of the bed, but John didn’t elaborate. Instead, he tugged at the waistband of Archy’s boxers, freeing him to the open air. The condom fit well enough, and the hands on his heated skin made him shudder, bucking into John’s hand.

“Oh, this was worth it,” John muttered, leaning in and taking Archy’s cock into his mouth, swirling his head with his tongue. Archy swore, his head hitting the headboard with a thump. There was a muffled chuckle from John as he nipped at Archy’s hip. “Done already?”

“Hope not,” Archy said, and John climbed back into his lap, herding him close. A cap snapped, and Archy felt his fingers slicked by something.

“Arch,” John said, pressing Archy’s fingers against him. Archy groaned, helping John open himself up. Archy marveled at the way John moved, rolling his hips against the flex of Archy’s fingers, his breathing a needy pant as Archy stretched him. He sucked a mark against John’s shoulder, earning him a whine and a gasp when he used his teeth.

John pulled away, only to slick Archy and kneel with his knees on either side of his hips. The first press against John was tense, the other man beautiful in the lamplight, his face locked in concentration. He sank down against Archy with a groan, the slick heat of him almost more than Archy could bear.

He pressed his head against John’s shoulder, the hand digging into his telling him that John was just as wrecked.

“Be mine, Archy,” John mouthed against his ear, his hand in Archy’s hair and his hips flush with Archy’s own.

Archy nodded, mute in the face of…whatever this was. It had quickly transcended sex into something much more meaningful. Six months and then zero-to-sixty, and he was lost.

“Good,” John mumbled, kissing him with an almost sloppy abandon. As their lips parted, John tugged Archy’s lower lip with his teeth. Releasing him, he smiled. “I’d hate to be the only one too far gone here.”

“You’re not,” Archy said, his voice hoarse. John rolled his hips, and Archy lost whatever rational thought he had left.

\- - - -

“You need to dump that girlfriend,” Lenny said. “She’s making you soft.”

“Nah,” Archy said, taking a seat in Lenny’s office. He accepted the cigar Lenny offered him, clipping the tip and lighting up. “She’s great for my killer instinct.”

Such as when Lenny got too nosy.

“I hope so,” Lenny said. “I got business for you. I finally nailed down that cop who’s been after us an’ locked away the boys last month.”

“Oh?” Archy leaned forward, taking the packet Lenny handed him. “What gave him away?”

“He’s too friendly,” Lenny said. “Ran into him outside the Councillor’s office. Too happy to fetch me a cup of coffee. Like he didn’t know his place. I kept my eyes peeled, and sure enough, he’s everywhere.”

Archy slit open the envelope and dumped the contents out. His breath stopped when a photo fluttered to the ground at his feet, revealing a sly smile, brown eyes the color of rich liquor, and a mop of curly, salt-and-pepper hair.

“Something wrong?” Lenny asked. Archy shook his head. He bent and picked up the photo, tucking it back into the sheaf of information Archy had on…

On John.

“Nothing at all.”

\- - - -

“You caught me right before my shower, Dove,” John said, letting Archy in. He had just gotten home from a run, Archy meeting him on the steps. Archy hadn’t let himself in, dithering on the stoop. John smiled, leaning in and kissing the corner of his mouth. “You’re welcome to join me, if you want.”

Archy felt sick.

“Yeah,” Archy grunted. He followed John woodenly to the master bath, watching as John peeled himself out of his workout clothes, seated on the commode. He didn’t move, though John shot him a look as he started the water.

“You seem out of sorts. All right?” John asked. Archy nodded, and John stepped in under the spray. Archy rose and disrobed, pulling his clothes off and leaving them in a neat pile out of the way.

“You’d tell me,” he said, stepping into the shower behind John, his hands on John’s hips. “You’d tell me if there was something I should know, right?”

“Of course,” John said, leaning his head back against Archy’s shoulder.

“Do you trust me?” Archy asked.

“Yes,” John said, eyes going dark and smoldering when Archy turned him, pressing him against the wall of the shower, his hand on John’s throat. “I trust you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Archy said, and started to squeeze. John’s eyes widened, and he tried to struggle, but Archy had the brace advantage, lifting John against the wall of the shower and holding him there. John’s toes squeaked against the tile, and his eyes rolled in his head, panic overtaking good sense as he flailed weakly at Archy.

The water began to run cold as John’s heels drummed against the wall of the shower, Archy’s arms feeling like stone as he watched the life slowly drain from John’s face. Tears mixed with water from the showerhead, and Archy could no longer tell if they were his own or John’s. It was all a blur.

It had taken hours. It had taken no time at all.

Archy retched, stumbling out of the shower and to the toilet, upending his guts in a coughing, choking rage.

Because he _remembered._

He cleaned himself up as best he could, dressing hastily and leaving John’s body in the shower. He exited the flat after tipping over the contents of John’s drawers, removing photos of them from John’s phone, his mantel, his walls. He tore through the place, smashing keepsakes and taking baubles he thought the police might link to a break-in.

He kicked in the flat’s garden door, smashing the glass from the outside in, then left the way he’d come, hailing a cab to the docks.

He burned the photos. As he watched the paper curl into flecks of ash and drift away in the smoke, he lit a cigarette and watched his hand shake as he tapped the ash from it. He’d killed his soul mate.

Again.

There was always a next time.

* * *

Merlin was left with the sound of Valentine’s gunshot ringing over the comms with the screech of feedback and Eggsy’s wail as Harr—as Galahad was torn from this world. He felt sick, the cold realization surfacing that he had seen this before.

He’d seen it countless times before.

Over and over and over, he’d seen Harry die. His name was never the same, but it was him. It was always them. Over and over, Merlin had watched Harry die, countless times and in countless ways, stretching over the span of months, decades, millennia.

The memories rushed back like a storm drain taking in flood water and he could howl with it. Instead, he was quietly sick in Central’s side washroom before drinking down a glass of water and washing his face.

He’d led Harry to that church. He’d told him Valentine would be inside. He could have swept more thoroughly, found another way. They’d been too secure in their knowledge of each other’s skillsets, complacent that Harry could handle anything Merlin couldn’t foresee. They’d been careless. _He’d been careless._

He’d killed his soul mate.

Again.

There was always a next time. Now, there was work to do. He had to somehow keep it together long enough to prevent V-Day.

\- - - -

It was like the bottom had dropped out from underneath him, finding Harry alive and (mostly) well in Kentucky. Statesman had been caring for him as best they could, and it was all Merlin could do to run in there and squeeze the breath from Harry’s lungs.

Eggsy had tried it, and Harry had shrunk from them, fear etched on his features. Merlin reserved himself, staying carefully back as Ginger Ale explained that Harry had none of his memories. Merlin swallowed.

He’d lost his soul mate, gotten him back, and Harry didn’t remember.

It was somehow worse than knowing he was gone.

Eggsy had managed to make a breakthrough with the puppy, but it wasn’t enough, Harry’s memories still plagued with hallucinations and his skills not even a quarter of what they had been before Valentine’s bullet. He looked at Merlin with an unfamiliar gaze, asking why he hadn’t been fixed.

Harry didn’t remember them. He didn’t remember Barcelona, Rhodes, Belfast, Turkey. He didn’t remember the way their hands melded together, their fingers linking. He didn’t remember Merlin’s favorite things.

He remembered Merlin as an acquaintance.

The cruelest twist of all, but perhaps that was what their fate was? To do this over and over until Harry died and left Merlin alone. Only this time…Harry had survived.

Now what?

Merlin had no time to think on it. Harry was still not a hundred percent, but they needed the antidote and their last chance was her signal in Cambodia. He geared up. What else could he do?

All Harry had to do was survive. They would figure out what to do once they got back. He would figure out what to do.

\- - - -

Merlin saw the realization light Harry’s face a moment before he stepped off the pressure plate. He wanted to tell him that it was all right, wanted to reassure him that it happened. That he would be fine. That he could find him again.

Harry’s face was that of shock, realization clouding his eye as Merlin’s voice gave out. He removed his foot from the plate. There was a click, and then thunder.

_I’m sorry, Harry. There’s always next time._

\- - - -

Merlin woke in an unfamiliar bed, staring up at the ceiling. There was the beep of machinery, the pinch of an IV drip in his arm, and a hand in his own. Slowly, his whole body aching, he turned his head to see Harry, staring at him with awe and fear. Their hands were linked, Harry lying beside him on a bed that had been pushed against his own.

“Harry?” he asked, his voice so rusty the word was almost unintelligible. He lay his head back, unable to keep his head up any longer, though he wanted to look at Harry more. Harry, alive and (mostly) whole. Even if he didn’t remember.

Harry gave a choked noise, pressing his lips against Merlin’s knuckles. Merlin felt something…small, a peaceful sort of hope, light in his chest.

“Late again, sir,” he sighed, and Harry’s laugh was thick with tears. He curled closer, not close enough to damage or bump Merlin, but enough that Merlin could rest his hand in salt-and-pepper curls, the sound of Harry’s breathing a welcome noise in the quiet of the deep watches of the night.

“Better late than never, Dove,” Harry replied.

Merlin smiled.

It was good to be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow I wrote this and now I'm super mad Colin Firth wasn't in Rocknrolla? Somewhere, Guy Ritchie just shivered, and doesn't know why that sense of foreboding passed through his mind. Anyway.
> 
> Brain, you stop that.
> 
> Anyway, have an AU-ish sort of thing inspired by a [tumblr post](https://tap-dat-agent.tumblr.com/post/166350218190/merlahad-concept-3-theyve-danced-this-dance) in the tag. While not P&M canon compliant, it's still fun to think about.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry guys. Me and [Bearfeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearfeathers/pseuds/bearfeathers) have got this. We sat down last night after screaming ourselves hoarse about the movie and we decided that it was time to correct some shit. All will be revealed in time. I also have my passport to the State of Denial and I don't honestly care; I like my version of events much, much better.
> 
> My update schedule might be more staggered than when I was cranking out fic for Smoking Gun. I currently work 48 hours a week at a job that is emotionally and mentally draining. However, I will endeavor to update and reply to as many comments as I can within 48 hours -- but that is by no means a promise that I will get to your comment immediately, or that I will have a chapter every day/every couple of days.


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